


The Nightingale

by AcaciaUnicorn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gender Roles, Healers, Memory Alteration, Memory Charm | Obliviate (Harry Potter), Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Pensieves (Harry Potter), Psychologists & Psychiatrists, St. Mungo's Healers (Harry Potter), World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 110,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29070882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcaciaUnicorn/pseuds/AcaciaUnicorn
Summary: There was a price for liberty. Bent feathers and broken wings. Yet, this was more acceptable to Dorcas than the cost of complacency. If Tom Riddle was to be her cage, then she would beat herself bloody against the bars of him, bending him just as surely as she bent herself. Dorcas was not free while he lived. She was his origin and he her undoing.
Relationships: Dorcas Meadowes/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Dorcas Meadowes was ready to die. She knew she would die. She had to die. 

“Birdie,” the silky voice called out to her. She didn’t hear it with her ears. Her ears only picked up the crickets and the gravel that crunched under her feet as she ran. 

She was hearing him in her mind, as she had so often in childhood. His voice hadn’t breached her mind’s barrier in decades. She knew now that it only had because he wanted it to. He’d been a skilled Legillimens now for some time. 

She only had herself to blame for that. There were enumerable transgressions she could lay at her own feet. But no time to do any of them justice. 

She gripped her wand tightly as she ran. 

“ _ Expecto Patronum! _ ” she huffed. She dare not stop to cast a spell, though her lungs protested with every breath. 

The little silver bird that emitted from her wand fluttered in front of her, checked for opponents. Finding none in front of it, the nightingale flitted back to Dorcas, hovering inches in front of her. 

“Phoenix,” she gasped as she ran, dictating a message to the little Patronus. “Wingate’s a trap. Do not send the team.” 

She put on a fresh burst of speed as the little bird flew off over the crumbling wall of the condemned hospital.

The wall to her right began to lean toward her, imperceptibly at first and then more noticeably as blocks of stone crashed in front of and beside her. 

_ “Reducto! _ ” Dorcas shouted, squeezing every ounce of air she could from her lungs to give voice to the spell. The large chunk of wall that lodged itself between her and the exit of the hospital disintegrated. The dust remaining swirled in the air and obscured her vision. 

She ran headlong into an Impediment Curse. She felt her nose crunch as she smacked face first into the invisible wall. 

Thrown backward to the ground, Dorcas blinked furiously to erase the stars from her vision. The wand she’d been clutching was thrown from her hand by the force of her impact with the cement foundation beneath her. 

She could just reach it with her fingertips. Stretching her arm, she could feel the smooth acacia wood. She pulled it closer. 

A booted foot came into view and crushed the wand and her fingers. 

Dorcas cried out and cursed the boot’s owner.

A tinkling laugh that contained no mirth greeted her ears. It belonged to her cousin, Gemma. 

“Aw!” she said in a baby voice, crouching low over Dorcas. “Did I hurt your fingers, precious?” For effect, she ground her boot into the pebbles and dust, twisting and ripping the flesh of Dorcas’s fingers. “I’m ever so sorry!” 

Dorcas didn’t say a word. She was working out how to get her left hand into her hip pocket to the tiny phial that she’d stashed there. Its contents were her own design. The potion she was proudest of. 

Dorcas turned onto her side, disguising her movements as she reached into her pocket. 

“Enough, Gemma,” the silky voice commanded. Dorcas could hear it now, not in her head anymore, but as clear as if the speaker were standing mere meters from her. 

Gemma stood, but never took her eyes off of Dorcas. She smiled a smile that relished Dorcas’s pain. 

Dorcas felt hot blood trickling from her nose. The broken fingers on her right hand protested as Gemma finally removed her foot from them. 

“Leave us,” he commanded. Gemma disappeared from Dorcas’s view. She heard two other sets of footsteps receding into the background as well. 

“Four on one?” Dorcas taunted. “Since when do you need anyone else to do your dirty work, Tom?” 

“I don’t need anyone. But it’s nice to have friends, isn’t it?” His face came into view over her as she lay on the ground. She was surprised at how altered he appeared. Every time she saw him he seemed less like himself. 

Dorcas thought curiously that his appearance, his demeanor, his voice, it should unsettle her. But in this moment, the effect it had on her was of sympathy. 

Of pity

Of loss. 

There was nothing of her once dear friend in that face, in those eyes, in that voice. 

She thought of her daughter. It used to be, looking at Ryann, she could not help but to notice the features she shared with her father. She once feared that others would note how much she resembled Tom. Now, Tom looked so far from himself that anyone could have mistaken Ryann for another man’s daughter. 

Tom crouched next to her, taking Gemma’s place, but carefully avoiding her crushed right hand. He took it gently in his and kissed it. 

“I’m sorry you’re hurt, Birdie,” he whispered. He removed his wand from inside of his robes and healed the bones of her broken fingers. He healed her bloodied nose. 

“My entire life is an open wound that you inflicted, Tom,” Dorcas said, softly, but with weight. “Let’s not pretend that you have any guilt over your choices.” 

Something in his face changed, as if Dorcas had unmasked him somehow. The hand he’d gently kissed and then healed moments before was constricted in his grip, his nails biting into her flesh.

He stopped to consider his next move. 

Straddling her and pinning her arms above her head, he bent and kissed her lips. Dorcas turned her head in the only act of defiance she had open to her. 

“I could force you,” he said. “What do you say? For old time’s sake?” 

Dorcas’s voice was calmer than she felt. Knowing that this was the end had somehow liberated her from fear. 

“Do what you must,” she answered, the disinterest in her voice was far more emasculating than she’d thought she was capable of. 

“ _ Imperio! _ ” Tom snarled the incantation, removing his weight from her and standing. 

Dorcas was able to throw off the curse, but decided not to reveal her trump card at that moment. 

“Stand,” Tom commanded. 

Dorcas’s muscles reacted to her brain, her brain was being manipulated by a puppeteer. She did not resist the command. She reveled in the loss of control, luxuriated in it. It reminded her that they were  _ close _ . Her team was  _ so close _ to cracking this damned curse for good. Soon, no one would be imprisoned in their own body with someone else pulling the strings. But Dorcas was also saddened to think that she would not be around to see the solution realized. 

Tom stood toe to toe with Dorcas and took her healed right hand gently in his left. His right hand slipped around her waist, he pulled her close. 

“Put your arm around me, Birdie,” he ordered. She complied. 

He whistled a tune and they began to sway. He was dancing with her. 

What was with the sentimental playacting? Why taunt her? They both knew what would happen here tonight. Why prolong it? 

She knew the tune. She sang along in her head. 

_ Stars fading, but I linger on, dear _

_ Still craving your kiss _

_ I’m longing to linger ‘till dawn, dear _

_ Just saying this _

“I want you to know that I’m going to find her,” Tom murmured, close to her ear. “She’s mine. You’ll be dead. I’m the only family she’ll have left.” 

Dorcas wanted to point out that family hadn’t meant so much to him in the past.

She stayed silent. 

Ryann would not be alone. She had Wren. They had each other. 

Dorcas closed her eyes and inhaled a deep, cleansing breath knowing that her girls had each other and that they would be safe. Tom would never know where they had gone. 

_ Sweet dreams 'till sunbeams find you _

_ Sweet dreams that leave all worry behind you _

The hand that Tom had commanded she place around his shoulder clutched the phial. With her thumb she unstoppered it. 

In one quick motion she swallowed its contents. 

Tom was visibly surprised by her quick motion. His red eyes became slits and then went wide, realizing that she’d duped him. 

“I want you to know I did love you once,” she said and kissed him. 

_ But in your dreams whatever they be _

_ Dream a little dream of me _

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

#  **Chapter 2**

26 August 1957 Diagon Alley, London

Dorcas stood beside a display window with every type of owl imaginable in brass cages big and small, clutching a list of course books in one gloved hand, bags of shopping hanging off of her elbow. In the other gloved hand was the hand of a small girl, contenting herself with dabbing the toe of her Mary-Jane shoe in a murky puddle and giggling to herself. 

“Come along, Wren,” Dorcas said, holding the hand clasping the girl’s aloft so that she could help her jump the puddle. 

She was grateful that her husband Caleb had suggested they divide and conquer (both the school list and the girls). She turned back briefly, making a quick wave at Cal and her oldest daughter, Ryann. They spared her a quick wave and returned to the perch of barn owls they had been perusing. 

“Let’s make a run for it,” she said, looking down and smiling at her youngest. The rain had begun to fall more earnestly, causing the passersby to reach for wands and mutter incantations that repelled water and spells that blossomed umbrellas from the ends of their wands. 

Wren returned her look with enthusiasm and skipped along faster, as her mother began to trot tentatively, negotiating the cobblestones in Chanel pumps. As they were in the Wizarding part of London, Dorcas would not have hesitated to pull her wand from the inside pocket of her coat, were it not for the parcels and children and lists that she had also been negotiating. 

Dorcas and her daughter were nearly to the safety of the Flourish and Blotts awning when she was stopped by a voice that she had not heard in over a decade. 

“Birdie?” came the surprised but delighted voice of one of her closest schoolhood friends. 

Dorcas was shocked by the sound of the name that she had not been called since her Hogwarts days. She released the squirming little hand that was tugging her toward the bookstore. 

“Tom?” Dorcas whispered, stunned. 

Two feelings warred within her: She was flooded with fond memories of their time together at school. At the same time, she was reminded that they did not part ways amicably. In fact, hearing his voice again gave her a distinct wave of panic. She did not want her husband and her older child to emerge from Eeylops until Tom had gone. 

Turning, Dorcas fixed a smile to her face and concealed her foreboding. She waved at the man who walked toward her, wand in his hand shielding him from the rain. He returned her smile and extended his wand arm to include her under the umbrella’s protection. 

The bookstore’s bell tinkled announcing that Wren had entered the shop. Tom gestured to the closing door where Wren had just been. “Birdie a mother,” Tom said, shaking his head as if it was too fantastic to believe. 

Dorcas gave a little shiver inside at this comment, but kept her expression light and pleasant with some effort. Here was the one person who kept her darkest secrets. She had spent the last decade putting miles and oceans between them. Now there were only inches separating them. 

“Yes.” 

With his other hand, Tom held the door for her and Dorcas muttered thanks and ducked out of the rain behind her daughter. 

Dorcas shifted her shopping to her other hand and extended her right hand to him. “It’s good to see you, Tom!” she lied, struggling to sound warm and friendly. 

Tom muttered “ _ Finite _ ” and stowed his wand in the breast pocket of his coat. “Of all the gin joints,” he laughed, quoting a film Dorcas had seen a lifetime ago. 

She withdrew her hand, in what she hoped was a casual way. She was aware of his gaze and it made her uncomfortable. 

Tom Riddle had not changed since the last time she had seen him. Dark hair, intense eyes, a cunning smile, he was the most handsome boy in school, she recalled. And he had been hers. She was overcome with a strange sensation of feeling her cheeks heat with a blush and at the same time feeling a chill creep down her spine. Was this what it had been like, back at school? Caught between delight and dread every time she held his gaze. 

Glancing at the list in her hand Tom asked, “A Hogwarts letter?” 

“My oldest starts next month,” she explained woodenly, stowing the list in her handbag. She took a calming breath and hoped that he hadn’t noticed how her hand shook as she did up the clasp.

“What have you been doing since school, Tom?” Dorcas asked conversationally, turning her attention from Wren back to her old schoolmate. She did not feel threatened by Tom. Not exactly. But she could not help the sensation that two worlds were colliding, past and present. She could not help feeling as if this meeting could spell nothing good for her family. For her. 

Tom took his hat off and brushed hair off of his forehead with the back of his hand. The recollection came unbidden to her mind of the many times that she had run her fingers through his hair in the same way. Remembering how they were together was pleasant, but there was something else under the surface. 

“I work around the corner,” he said vaguely, pointing in the direction of Knockturn Alley. 

Wren was cross-legged on the floor next to a bookshelf immersed in a book of fairytales, open to a page with an ink-and-watercolor knight battling a dragon. The movements on the page reminded Dorcas of a stop-motion film, like Gumby. She did not spare her daughter a long look, not wanting to draw Tom’s attention to her child. 

Dorcas noted, not for the first time, how strong the resemblance was between Wren and Cal. She had his sandy-colored hair, straight mostly, but falling into a gentle curl at the end. The wide and cheerful face and expressive blue eyes. In contrast, everyone always said that Ryann favored her: dark and wavy hair, dramatic features in a pale face. The only difference between Ryann’s features and her own were Ryann’s deep brown eyes, which contrasted Dorcas’s own dark blue. “The perfect pair,” Cal always called their daughters. 

But, as Dorcas turned her attention back to Tom, she saw only too clearly, Ryann’s features reflected in his face. I must do something, Dorcas thought wildly, her heart racing. Ryann must not come into this shop. Tom must not see her.

Instead, Dorcas settled on some light chat. Being careful to keep her face neutral and pleasant, to keep the alarm from reaching her eyes. 

“Who are you seeing these days, Tom? Is there a Mrs. Riddle?” It sounded absurd to her the moment it came out of her mouth. Tom found affection for affection’s sake tedious. He only ever acted out romantic feelings as a means to an end. Looking back on their years together as school sweethearts, as she found herself doing sometimes, this was the only logical conclusion she could come up with. 

“Sadly no. I am a confirmed bachelor,” he conceded charmingly. “I wish I could stay and chat,” he added, placing his hat back on his head and reaching once again for his wand. “I have business that won’t wait.”

“What a shame,” Dorcas said, her smile faltering. She recovered her composure by rummaging in her handbag for the shopping list. Tom leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. She accepted the familiar token of affection with a squeeze of his arm. Was she a good actress? She hoped so. 

“Goodbye, Birdie,” Tom said with a wink and ducked back out of the shop. Hitching the collar of his coat up against the rain, he walked resolutely away, his expression inscrutable. 

Dorcas watched him from the shop window. He was turning left toward the corner. She gave a relieved sigh. 

Cal and Ryann had selected a tawny owl and were crossing the street to join them, both chattering and looking at the new pet. 

Tom stopped for a moment, staring at the pair. 

A sense of dread filled Dorcas. She willed him to keep walking, at the same time, willing Cal not to look in his direction. She could hear the chatter around her in the shop growing louder as she projected her consciousness out toward Tom. The voices and the thoughts that she could hear around her were indistinguishable from one another. But from the consciousness of the man that she was focusing all of her attention on, she could hear only silence. His defense of his own mind had become much stronger, she noted. 

She looked from Tom to Cal and Ryann and the feeling of dread grew stronger. We should not have come here, her inner voice admonished. 

“You’re not naming your owl Howdy Doody,” Cal was laughing at his daughter, pushing open the door to the bookshop. “Give it a good wizard’s name like Merlin.”

Wren was jumping up and down beside Dorcas with excitement at the owl. Her book discarded at her feet, forgotten. 

“Everyone will have named their owl some boring old Wizarding name,” argued Ryann. 

Dorcas looked at the corner of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley where Tom had just been, but he was gone. The panicky sense of terror that had descended upon her lingered. She kept playing the last scene over and over: Tom stopping to stare at her husband and daughter. Did he see the resemblance in Ryann that was all too obvious to her? 

“Let’s finish the shopping and go home,” Dorcas said, infusing her words with a calm tone that took every ounce of her composure to speak. 

:::

Thirty Years Earlier. 

30 August 1927 Number 19 Strattondale Street, Poplar, London

The faintest of breezes made a feeble attempt at rustling the paper cranes that had been thickly stranded on the curtain rod of the window that overlooked Strattondale. The lilac, marigold, azure, and rose-colored cranes sailed lazily back and forth knocking into one another, creating the only sound in the flat, apart from the languid breathing of a napping boy on the settee underneath the window. Dark curls plastered to his sweaty forehead, eyelids closed but fluttering with activity in a subconscious adventure, Morty’s chest gently rose and fell beneath a thin undershirt. Mary-Ellen Clerey’s eyes moved from the boy’s face to a hole near the right pocket of the navy short trousers he wore. She would have to mend this pair soon. There was a regular rotation of mending that came with the clothing of a twelve-year-old boy. Mending and critters, Mary-Ellen thought as her eyes traveled from the hole, down the right arm that had fallen from his side to the floor, where he had sleepily released a toad he had been clutching.

Mary-Ellen’s eyes returned finally to the sheet of unfolded copy paper in her hands. Her eyes traced for, perhaps, the hundredth time the familiar scripted hand of her husband. Her eyes lovingly lingering on his signature, “All my love, Corbin”.

She could recite the letter by heart:

_ 17 June 1927. _

_ My Darling M, _

_ Arrived in Paris only moments ago. Stopped at a cafe for a coffee and to make a report. I think the hotel we stayed at that one time may only be a block from here. I can see that little bookstore you loved across the street and I am thinking of better days. Number 9 has made an important contact. _

(Number 9 was a code name, a number on the back of Quidditch robes from bygone days when battling on the pitch for the Quidditch Cup seemed to be focus of Corbin’s life)

_ and I am hopeful that this is the break that we’ve been looking for. I will write tomorrow or the next day perhaps. It depends really on whether the trail continues or dies. One day this will seem old hat to you, letters from your husband in the field that contain little information and even less certainty. But you are a trooper, my dear. I know you will never be the sort to mope around waiting for news. You are self-sufficient and will carry on. Knowing that you carry on makes my task somehow lighter and easier to shoulder. _

_ Send word if it should happen while I’m away. I want to know the moment that I am a father. But you are looking after yourself, I hope? Don’t do any lifting. Get Mrs. Beaty’s oldest boy to carry things for you. How’s Morty? How’s his menagerie? I must remember to bring him something back from my travels. Write me with ideas. Must go. _

_ All my love, _

_ Corbin _

She rested her right hand, still grasping the letter on the great bulging mass that was her belly. The letter had become an extension of her limb. Her hand didn’t know how to be without the page it clutched anymore.

How long had the knocking been going on? Another succinct rap, followed by a baritone laced with panic, or was it agitation? 

“Mary-Ellen? Are you in there? Open the door now!”

Mary-Ellen felt like the voice had doused her with cold water. Just the thing to jolt her from her time travels. Her eyes snapped back to the napping boy, no longer napping. Their eyes met in silent communication.

May I be excused? the boy's eyes asked. She nodded. As she hoisted herself from the rocker she was sitting in to answer the door, Morty snatched up his toad and quickly retreated to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Mary-Ellen drew in a breath and said, “Coming!” though it sounded both sharp and hoarse at the same time and nothing like the casual response she had intended.

“Merlin, Mary-Ellen! I was ready to blast the door from its hinges! Muggles be damned!”

A tall man ten years older than Mary-Ellen swept into the room, as he did when entering any space, as if he owned it. The resemblance to Mary-Ellen and Morty was apparent. The family characteristics were pronounced in the Rackharrow family. Dark hair, dark eyes, fair skin, self-possessed confidence that comes with money and influence. The last trait being the one that Mary-Ellen had devoted her life to most earnestly exorcising in herself. 

Dark fedora, dark suit and overcoat, umbrella hanging neatly from his arm. When her older brother deigned to visit the Muggle world he did it all the way. Posh native, slumming it to visit his sister. She had long since given up any attempt at correcting anything her older brother did. Otherwise, she would have pointed out the unnecessary, very heavy wool coat in August.

“Lysander,” Mary-Ellen sighed in greeting, suddenly winded and exhausted from extracting herself from the rocking chair. “You scared me and Morty half to death!” 

She took the hat, coat, and umbrella that were dumped into her arms and placed them on the coat stand, shutting the door after sparing a glance at the hallway to check for bystanders. All clear.

“I scared you?” Lysander responded, a hint of indignation remaining in his voice, but lowered, suddenly remembering he was no longer in the Wizarding parts of London. Might as well be a foreign country, he often remarked on his rare visits to this flat.

“I was knocking for five minutes!” Lysander continued, following Mary-Ellen into the kitchen.

“Tea?” Mary-Ellen asked, ignoring the melodrama. She paused with the kettle in one hand, stowing the letter in her apron pocket with the other. She returned the tense stare that her brother fixed her with.

“My mind played out terrible scenarios. You took an eternity to answer. What was I supposed to think?” He finished lamely, possibly ashamed of the scene he had caused in the hall.

“That I was busy and couldn’t answer the door right away. I don’t have servants to do things for me, you know.”

She decided for him. Yes, he would have tea. She put the kettle under the tap to fill and flicked the dial on the stovetop. Placing the kettle on the burner, she gestured to the scrubbed kitchen table and took a seat across from Lysander.

As he sat, he became less self-possessed, less confident in this Muggle space.

“Where is Mortimer?” Lysander asked, taking in the swaying cranes, the crayon-and-paper-strewn rug, and the toy by-plane discarded on the settee where Morty had been fast asleep moments ago.

“In his room,” Mary-Ellen answered with a note of finality. She fixed him with a look that said this particular line of questioning was over.

“How are you?” her brother asked tentatively, changing the subject. “How are you feeling? Due date is getting closer,” he observed warily surveying her vast middle as she pushed away from the table, standing and pulling the screaming kettle off of the heat.

She busied herself with tea things for a few moments letting the question and the concern hang in the air. Returning to her seat, pouring tea into two mismatched cups, handing one to Lysander, blowing steam off of her own before sipping, she considered her response.

How was she feeling?

Frightened. 

Frightened that her husband’s months of silence confirmed what she had feared. That he was dead.

Frightened. That she was left to raise her kid brother and her own baby without Corbin.

Frightened. That she would be left with no support, save her rigid and cruel father and the cold sibling that, at this moment, covered the silence by carefully stirring sugar into his cup and avoiding her stare.

Frightened. That every time she felt a twinge or pain, she was reminded of the mother who had died nearly thirteen years ago giving birth to her younger brother.

“I’m fine,” she replied flatly in the rehearsed tone of one who has often been asked in the last few months how she was doing.

“I have news,” Lysander said, barely registering his sister’s rote response because it was expected.

“News of what?” Mary-Ellen asked blandly, sipping and staring at the man across from her. A creature so familiar in appearance and so alien in conviction.

“Of Corbin.”

There was a ringing in her ears at the sound of her husband’s name. A name that her eyes had wandered over in the letter in her pocket a dozen times a day, for the past two months. A name that she had not heard spoken in what seemed like ages. The ringing grew louder.

Her brother was speaking. She was watching his mouth forming words, forming sentences. She did not hear them.

She heard Corbin’s voice:

“I’m the youngest Auror on this assignment.” Corbin stuffed a bunch of socks into a valise excitedly.

Mary-Ellen tentatively handed him a stack of folded dress shirts from the bureau. “Is there any danger?”

She felt the same foreboding now as she had then.

“No.” He smiled reassuringly, grinning at her. “Just a small-time smuggler.” He laid the dress shirts on top of the lot and smoothed them.

Small-time smuggler, or dangerous dark wizard? What’s the difference? She wanted to be angry at this white lie. She wanted her past self to be forceful and demand the details. Yet she could not be angry at Corbin. She never could.

The look on her face must have communicated her fears plainly. Corbin crossed the room and took her hands in his.

“Not a chance for trouble in the least.” He gave her hands a squeeze. “Dean Barrie and Shirley Travers are already in Paris. They just need a few more eyes and ears on the ground.”

He placed a hand on her cheek.

Eyes and ears. More like boots on the ground. She had gone to the Ministry every week since she had heard about Paris. She demanded to speak with Corbin’s superior. She only ever got the company line from Theseus Scamander’s secretary: “Communication is limited, I cannot give details to unauthorized parties. Your husband will be in contact with you as soon as he can, I’m sure. Owl service to the continent is a bit irregular. You know how it is.”

Demanding to speak to Scamander himself proved fruitless. “He’s on assignment.”

“Strictly routine, ma’am” Corbin had said in an affected radio detective voice. Disarming her of any protest she had been ready to make. His Muggle humor was her weakness.

“...that you gave me to follow up with.” Lysander continued, oblivious to his sister’s glazed eyes and the teacup suspended halfway to her lips.

“I was able to track down one woman. A Sonja Calvet with the Paris Ministry. She confirmed what we all assumed. He was there. He and his team were at Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise.”

Mary-Ellen’s eyes focused and she sipped her tea with what she hoped was a conversational, “Mm hmm.”

Lysander’s brow furrowed and he fixed his sister with a look that made her wonder if she’d accidentally said something unladylike.

“Mary-Ellen,” her brother said slowly and quietly. “Did you hear what I just said?”

Shaking the memory from her mind she said, “No, sorry.”

Another sip.

Silence.

“I said your husband is dead.”

The ringing in her ears became a rushing waterfall. Static and noise that drowned out her brother’s voice altogether and swept her away in a tide.

She sat catatonic for a while before her eyes focused on her brother once more.

“Mary-Ellen!” Lysander demanded her attention as if talking to his toddler, Gemma. He snapped his fingers just in front of her eyes.

She blinked.

Mary-Ellen heaved a sigh. Blowing the realization that her brother’s words carried out with her breath, sucking the pain it brought in with another breath.

Then she felt a powerful, tearing pain in her abdomen and wailed a frightening scream.

:::

Thirty Years Later

26 August 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

“And you’re _ sure _ he saw her?” Cal asked for the third time that evening. He had paused with his knife’s point resting on the cutting board, the valerian root he was working on momentarily forgotten. 

Dorcas knew this afternoon’s encounter with Tom had thrown him off balance. Cal was usually calm and methodical in the laboratory. The valerian root lay chopped haphazardly on the cutting board. She guessed he would have to start over again. 

She felt off balance as well. She had put Tom and her years at school behind her. With Ryann’s letter to Hogwarts and the Diagon Alley shopping trip, memories had been coming back to her more frequently. 

Not for the first time today, she wondered to herself if it was the right thing to do, moving back. She and Cal had spent eight years creating a wonderful life for themselves in America. On the one hand, Ryann would be able to attend the school where Dorcas had met Cal and had many happy memories. St. Mungo’s had also offered Cal and Dorcas a research grant to begin development of neurological spell damage antidotes. On the other hand, coming back to the country of her birth also meant that it was not as easy to hold back the more unpleasant memories of her past. Tom appearing on the street today was the embodiment of those unpleasant past memories. 

Their parting twelve years ago was painful to remember. For Dorcas, at least. Tom seemed completely at ease seeing her again. It was easier to make herself forget that Ryann was not Cal’s child when the physical reminder of her daughter’s paternity was not staring her in the face. 

“I’m positive, Cal,” Dorcas confirmed, stirring a cauldron full of firethorn, patiently waiting until it resembled a syrup-like reduction. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Cal resumed chopping for a minute more before he surveyed the damage and tipped the entire contents of the cutting board into the bin. 

“Maybe he doesn’t suspect that she is his. He couldn’t have gotten a very good look at her. Anyway,” Cal added, “she looks more like you than anyone else.” His tone had been careful and hushed. Their basement laboratory offered some privacy to the couple, but their daughters were asleep just upstairs. 

Cal was reliable for the comments that helped her to remain positive, to look on the brightside, to come down from the ledge. 

“What’s the worst that could happen even if he did suspect?” Cal shrugged. 

He abandoned his chopping and came to stand next to her. Placing a reassuring hand over her own and a kiss on her temple. “We can avoid that part of London in future. You need never see Tom Riddle again, Clerey.”

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

12 August 1939 Galbraith Street, Poplar, London

Dorcas Clerey loitered in the record store as long as she dared without buying anything. She often came into this shop to thumb through the sheet music and, if a listening booth opened up, sample the records. She had just been listening to some of her favorite Bach adagios while following them on the musical score that she now placed neatly back in the bin under the sign marked Classical. 

She waved a goodbye to the clerk, Bobby. He was tall and skinny, with shiny black hair that he fussed with too much. 

“Bye, D!” he called absently after her, bagging purchases for a middle-aged woman at the register. 

He was Dorcas’s definition of hip. He didn’t seem to care too much if she wanted to come in and look around, so long as she replaced anything she took from the shelves. He was usually tasked with straightening those shelves at the end of the night and didn’t like when this task kept him from his girlfriends. He always had girlfriends pop into the shop. That, or he was always asking Mr. Bell for evenings off to go on dates with girlfriends. 

Dorcas watched the girls coming and going with an intellectual curiosity; a sociology study. She hoped one day to observe the interactions of two girls coming into the store at the same time to visit Bobby. What a showdown that would be, she imagined. If this had happened yet she had, sadly, not been present to witness it. 

Mrs. Bell was the one that Dorcas watched out for. On more than one occasion, Mrs. Bell had pushed her toward the door when it became apparent that browsing would not lead to purchasing. A large woman in a flowery apron and unfashionable shoes, Mrs. Bell was always surveying the store under the pretense of dusting something. And her eyes always found Dorcas. Her instincts were sharper when Dorcas was low on pocket money. Mrs. Bell seemed to have a sense about this, turning her about and ushering her back onto the pavement the moment the bell tinkled to announce her entry. 

Today she had been lucky. With empty pockets, Dorcas looked through the window and almost skipped with excitement at finding Mrs. Bell absent. Bobby was assisting a young couple with a radio, back turned to the entrance. She was able to make a quick selection (classical was her mood today) and snag a booth. Her tastes did not alway run in this direction. She would listen to, and liked, almost anything she heard. 

Back onto the pavement with the sound of violins and cellos still in her ears, she floated in the direction of home on a wave of melody. 

Rounding the corner, Dorcas was jolted from her musical daydream by two boys with sticks. She hadn’t noticed them at first. The thought that burst through her pleasant reverie was what drew her attention to them. 

Dorcas had always been able to push down the sensation that she could see flashes of other people’s thoughts. She never summoned these thoughts, never sought to breach another’s consciousness. She mostly jostled them to the back of her thoughts and focused on her own mind’s picture. She had never voiced this ability to anyone. She had always accepted teachers’ and neighbors’ explanations that she was just intuitive and sensitive. 

It was harder to shunt the image that she saw in her mind’s eye to the background now. The cruelty smacked her in the face. She turned her attention to the two boys with sticks. They had a kitten cornered behind a couple of rubbish bins. She could not see the kitten with her own eyes, just through the nearest of the two boys’ minds. 

Dorcas ran over to the pair, shouting, “Cut it out! What do you want to hurt that little thing for?”

The boys were not as tall as she was. They could have been two or even three years younger than her. They were from the flat on the ground floor of her building and were always the source of some trouble. They had only moved in two weeks ago. Dorcas didn’t even know their names. 

“Well it’s just a stray,” explained the boy that was nearest to Dorcas. 

“That doesn’t matter any,” Dorcas raged, tearing his stick from his hand and prodding him hard in the ribs with it. “How d’you like that?”

The two boys were backing away from her, but she threw the stick hard at their retreating forms for good measure. 

With the threat abated, Dorcas’s demeanor became gentler and her voice softer. She slid one of the bins aside and saw a small and cowering black and white ball wedged against the wall and the other bin. 

“It’s ok,” Dorcas coaxed. “You can come out now. They’re not coming back.”

She held out a hand for the kitten to sniff. Bolstered by the fact that the kitten didn’t try to flee, Dorcas scooped the small bundle into her hand and wrapped it up in her cardigan. 

Pondering names for her new friend, Dorcas took the stairs to her second floor flat two at a time. The building was shabby, wallpaper yellowing in spots. But the tiny flat on the second floor held the two people dearest to Dorcas: her mother and her Uncle Morty. For this reason, the shabby four-floor building in the heart of London’s East End was the most wonderful place in the world. 

Dorcas paused mid-climb and mid-brainstorm when she heard an intimidating but not unfamiliar voice coming from the door that she had nearly reached. 

She debated for a moment.

Should she beat a retreat to the small garden to the rear of the building? Go back the way she came and out onto the street? 

Before she had settled on a plan of action, her Uncle Lysander pulled open the door to her family rooms and stepped into the hall. He placed his black hat onto his head and turned to go. Dorcas’s mother was right behind her older brother handing him his coat and umbrella. He had the dark but handsome features of a Hollywood villain, or a gangster. 

His dark eyes flicked toward her for only a moment. Dorcas was relieved. He was not planning to speak to her. She could see the impression of his mind: he had said what he had needed to say to his sister, Mary-Ellen, and there was no need to say more, even in greeting to his niece. 

Dorcas saw her Uncle Lysander on only a few occasions in her life. The most recent of these meetings had been four years ago at her grandfather, Titus Rackharrow’s funeral. It had been a somber and raining occasion, full of itchy black wool, dour looks, too many cloying lilies, and very few tears. Dorcas’s mother was uneasy and fidgety throughout the eulogies, as if at the slightest provocation, she would flee the scene. Dorcas had accompanied her mother, along with her Uncle Morty. He was a striking contrast in mood and appearance to all of the other funeral goers. He had insisted on wearing yellow Wellington boots. Morty was a creature of habit and rules: it was raining, the appropriate footwear was Wellingtons. Keen to avoid a scene before even setting out for the gravesite, Mary-Ellen had capitulated. And he had a vacant smile plastered to his face. This was not because he was particularly happy to see anyone there. Besides his siblings and niece, Dorcas knew her uncle didn’t know anyone else there. No, Morty loved being in nature. Nevermind that this was a cemetery and it was raining. 

Uncle Morty was not the only one to stand out at the funeral. Everyone in attendance was wearing black, ankle-length robes, the sort that you would find university students wearing at academic ceremonies. Men and women alike dressed in this curious fashion. Mary-Ellen, Morty, and Dorcas alone had worn dresses and trousers and jackets. The three of them held the customary black utilitarian umbrellas that were the habit of most Londoners. Those in robes held wands that made a misty, almost shiny imprint of an umbrella, only outlined by the water they were meant to repel. Dorcas had stared unabashed at these. It was not often that she came this close to magic. She experienced very little of it in her own home. 

“Muggle relations,” Dorcas had heard an older woman say to a companion while looking in their direction. It was such a curious phrase that Dorcas had remembered it years later. 

“It’s all arranged. Please don’t be difficult, Mary-Ellen,” Lysander appealed one final time. With umbrella and coat in hand, he swept past Dorcas and down the stairs. 

Dorcas looked at her mother in question. 

Mary-Ellen’s only reply was, “Wash your hands, darling. Dinner in ten minutes.” She held the door open for Dorcas to enter before her. 

Passing the threshold, Dorcas knew something was different about the combination parlor-dining-room-kitchen that comprised the main space of the house. It felt instantly smaller. This was due to a very large piano that now took up most of the space dedicated to the parlor area. Her father’s chair had been squeezed right alongside the couch in order to accommodate the instrument. It was really too large for the small space, but it captivated Dorcas immediately. 

Dorcas went over to the piano, running a finger across the glossy black surface. Her nameless kitten squirmed inside of her cardigan. Placing the small bundle on the bench beside her, Dorcas began to leaf through music that was propped against the stand above the keys. 

Her mind asked a question and reached for an answer. She found the mental response in her mother’s mind: her Uncle Lysander miraculously produced the instrument in this very room from the inside pocket of his coat. As bizarre as this image seemed, Dorcas knew that magic happened elsewhere in London, even if it only happened rarely in her own home. 

Her Uncle Morty had sliced his finger badly when he was putting a knife away during chores just last week. Dorcas’s mother had calmly and expertly bound the skin together by taking a wand from her apron pocket and saying some words over the wound. It was as if the knife had never slashed her uncle at all. Mary-Ellen had never pulled a piano from her pocket, though. 

“Your Uncle Lysander has given it to you,” her mother said. There was a complicated ring in her voice. 

There were always complicated feelings surrounding her Uncle Lysander and the rest of the Rackharrows. Dorcas had cobbled together bits of the saga over her nearly twelve years on the earth. Though she never asked her mother why her uncle and aunt and cousins never came to visit, she knew that their estrangement all centered around her other uncle, Morty. 

After a particularly upsetting conversation with her older brother--an argument, really, Dorcas had found her mother standing over the stove, stirring something that simmered there with a glazed look on her face. She had met her uncle on the stairs as he was leaving and she was entering, much like they had met today. 

“Mama?” she had asked tentatively as she opened the door. 

Her mother stirred the saucepan absently and did not turn to answer her daughter. Dorcas could tell by the story replaying itself in her mind that she had not heard her enter the flat. The brother and sister had quarrelled over money. Lysander had offered to pay for a better home, nearer to his own family. Mary-Ellen had been offended and accused her brother of trying to buy forgiveness. 

This particular argument had happened nearly three years ago. 

Dorcas had not known at the time why her mother was angry at her older sibling. She knew that her mother usually harbored hard feelings for her Uncle Lysander, but had never known why. She had always been too timid to ask. 

The answer came nearly a year and a half later after a notably fierce fit from her Uncle Morty. Mary-Ellen had seen Morty’s caretaker out moments before, having just come home from a double shift at the hospital that she worked at. Dorcas was supposed to have been asleep hours ago, but had been lying awake in the dark. She was tense and ready. She knew the warning signs that signaled that Morty was due for a bout of seizures. She felt this like a coming rainstorm, one that you could smell on the horizon. 

A crash and grunt. 

She threw back the covers and felt for the pull of the lamp on her bedside table. Shuffling out of her room, eyes adjusting to the light, she grabbed a towel from the washroom on her way to Morty’s room. Her mother was already there, on the floor next to the table and lamp that had been toppled when Morty had fallen from his bed. 

Mary-Ellen was still in uniform: lace-up black shoes, stockings, and black nurse’s dress, though her lime green St. Mungo’s robes and her handbag had been hastily discarded in the doorway of Morty’s room. 

Her mother sat cross legged on the floor beside the upended table and lamp, her little brother’s head cradled in her lap. She cushioned his head and whispered calming words to him, brushing his dark hair back from his sweaty brow. Morty thrashed violently in her arms for several minutes more. His hand beat the floor as he seized, picking up shards from the broken lamp. There was a cut on Mary-Ellen’s knee from hastily kneeling on the broken pieces as well. 

Dorcas had been through this scene enough in her years of living with her Uncle Morty. There was nothing to do except wait for the thrashing to stop. She stood by like a surgical assistant waiting for the doctor to call for the required tools, which she was poised and ready to supply. 

Mary-Ellen leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closed, tears leaking down her face. Tired was too small of a word to explain what was etched on Mary-Ellen’s face. Weary was the word that came to Dorcas’s mind. Her mother was a weary woman with too much burden to shoulder. 

Images came to Dorcas in quick succession: a sterile corridor, a healer in light blue robes, wand raised, a patient writhing beneath it, strapped to a hospital bed, fighting restraints. Dorcas did not search her mother for these images, they came to her from her mother’s careworn consciousness on their own. A feeling of rage and of betrayal accompanied the images. Dorcas could not make the images connect into a narrative that made any sense to her, but she knew that these images told a story about why her uncle suffered the way he did.

And together with her earlier cache of images from her mother’s argument with her Uncle Lysander, she knew that Mary-Ellen held him somehow responsible for the way Morty was. 

The tremors lessened and Morty relaxed against his sister. His bladder had let loose, as Dorcas knew it would. She bent down next to her mother and muttered comforting words; words to soothe both of them. She wiped the blood from her uncle’s hand and then mopped the expanding puddle around them. 

“That belonged to your grandmother, Leisel,” Mary-Ellen explained nodding at the large piano, pulling Dorcas back to the present. 

Scratching her kitten behind the ear, eyes scanning the page of music in her other hand, Dorcas asked, “Why has he given it to me?”

“His children are not fond of music apparently, and your Aunt Eden is redecorating Rackharrow Hall,” Mary-Ellen explained, the last bit in a disdainful tone. “Who’s that there?” she added, gesturing to the kitten with a dinner plate as she laid three places for dinner. 

Dorcas turned her attention to the little black and white creature again, considering. It looked at her with pale blue eyes. She pictured a Bing Crosby poster hanging outside of the listening booths at S. Bell’s Music. 

“Bing,” Dorcas replied. 

“Give Bing a bath before putting him in your bed tonight. He probably has fleas,” her mother instructed. “Morty, dinner,” she called as Dorcas crossed to the kitchen, opening the fridge and taking out the milk. 

She grabbed a saucer from the drainboard, filled it with milk and placed it and the kitten on the floor beside the coat rack. 

Taking her seat and placing the milk bottle on the table, Dorcas noticed an envelope at her place beside her plate. It was addressed to Miss Dorcas Clerey, Number 19 Strattondale, London. 

“Hi, D,” said Morty in passing as he went to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. 

A moment later he whooped in surprise and shot to the floor by the coat rack. “A kitten!” he exclaimed, sprawling beside Bing and examining the kitten as it lapped up milk. He was wearing goggles and had the look of a mad scientist to Dorcas. 

She looked back at the envelope. 

Her mother took her plate and filled it. 

“Hands, Dorcas,” Mary-Ellen reminded. “It’s from Hogwarts,” she added, gesturing at the letter. Dorcas placed the letter by her plate as an after dinner treat. She pushed her chair back and walked to the sink. 

Dorcas was filled with excitement as she picked up the soap. A kitten, a piano, and her Hogwarts letter! It was the best birthday she had ever had. And it was a month early to boot!

:::

1 September 1939 King’s Cross Station, London

Dorcas had been excited when her Hogwarts letter had arrived two and a half weeks ago. She had even been dazzled by her first trip into Diagon Alley three days ago. Staring at the gleaming red Hogwarts Express had also produced elation the likes of which Dorcas had never experienced in her life. 

Clutching Bing in one gloved hand, Dorcas stepped onto the train with an immediate doubt in her mind: had she made a mistake? Was a wizarding education what she wanted; what she needed? Would she even know how to perform magic? What if she had non-magical genes, like her Uncle Morty. It would be a humiliation to travel all the way to Hogwarts only to find out on the first day of lessons that there had been a mistake and she could not, after all, cast a single spell. 

Then, she supposed, she would not have been selected by a wand at Olivander’s. In fact, a lovely, beautifully springy ten and a half inch acacia and unicorn hair core had chosen her. Mr. Olivander had been surprised that a wand from among his small store of acacia wood wands had prompted him. He had gone years, he explained to Dorcas in an awed whisper, without pulling a single one of the five wands in stock from the shelves. “An acacia wand does not pick a witch or wizard often. In fact, I have only placed a wand of this wood type into the hands of five or six others.”

That had to confirm that she had some predisposition to magic, right? A wand had selected her, found something magical and noteworthy about her? 

But then, there was also the financial concern. Scanning the list in front of her at dinner on the evening before her very first trip to Diagon Alley, she timidly voiced this doubt to her mother. 

“I could continue in the community school,” Dorcas had said, feeling her excitement sink at the prospect of so many books, and robes, and potion ingredients. Was Hogwarts a private school that would cost a fortune to attend? Her mother did not have a fortune. Nothing even close to one. 

Mary-Ellen had leveled a penetrating gaze at Dorcas with her water glass suspended in mid air. “Is that what you want? To continue schooling here?” It was a matter of fact question. Dorcas was free to choose her own path. 

“Hogwarts sounds great. I’m excited,” Dorcas hedged. 

“But what?” her mother prompted, sipping water. 

Dorcas shrugged, pushing food around her plate, not meeting her mother’s eyes. 

Dorcas was grateful for everything she had. Though it wasn’t much, she had a safe and comfortable home, food on the plate in front of her, and two people she loved very much. She looked to her right at Morty instead. He was folding paper cranes in what seemed to be a mental contest against himself. She knew he would spend all night stringing these across the mantle, on her piano, on the light fixtures. 

“Are you worried about Morty,” Mary-Ellen probed. 

Morty answered his name with a quick smile at Mary-Ellen and returned to his cranes. 

Dorcas felt worse. She should have felt bad about leaving her uncle. He would not do well with her absence. He did not cope with a change in his routine or atmosphere. This had not occurred to her in all of her anticipation. 

“I just wonder if we can afford for me to go there,” Dorcas finally admitted. 

“I cannot,” Mary-Ellen replied, a little downcast as she stood to remove empty dinner things to the drainboard. “But your Uncle Lysander has offered to pay for your tuition and supplies,” she added with her back turned. Dorcas could hear that familiar tension in her mother’s voice at the mention of her older sibling. “That’s why he was here. The piano and the school funds.”

“What should I do, Mama?” Dorcas asked after a long pause. Considering the unease that had fallen on the small room. Morty folding paper was the only sound. 

“I can’t tell you, Dorcas,” her mother said, turning toward her with a chocolate cake on a plate in her hands. She placed it on the table in front of her and, with a quick “ _ Incendio _ ” lit the twelve candles stuck into it with her wand. 

It was not Dorcas’s birthday until September 12. She would be at school then, so they would celebrate early. 

“I want you to choose the school that you want to go to. I don’t want you to worry about me, or Morty, or money.” Mary-Ellen came to stand beside her daughter and placed a kiss on the top of her head. 

“Happy Birthday, darling,” Mary-Ellen proclaimed as Morty clapped his hands, paper cranes forgotten all around him. 

Dorcas moved into a compartment that was empty in the center of the train. She placed Bing on a tweedy seat and pulled her trunk into the space behind her. She surveyed the overhead rack and the enormous trunk beside her dubiously. She gave it up as a bad job and sat next to Bing with a shrug. 

Opening the  _ Photoplay _ magazine that her mother had given her as an early birthday present, Dorcas tried to calm her nerves by flipping through page after page of glamorous Hollywood film stars. When she had exhausted this source of distraction, she opened the trunk that sat beside her and reached for  _ Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 _ . 

“Hello there,” said a cheerful voice as Dorcas heard the compartment door slide open. 

Dorcas lowered her book and saw a girl standing in the cabin’s entrance. Her face was wide and sunny, her auburn hair framing it beautifully in soft curls. 

“Hello,” Dorcas returned, setting her book in her lap. 

“Is there room in here for me and my new friend, Anneliese?” the sunny-faced girls asked. 

“Yes, it’s just me,” Dorcas said, secretly relieved that she would not be making the journey to Hogwarts alone. 

“You and this darling,” the girl corrected, forgetting all else: her trunk and her friend and crossing the compartment to lift Bing into the air. 

The girl called Anneliese lingered in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. There was a trunk in her way and she seemed unsure if she should try to shift it or try to traverse it in a skirt and appear unladylike. She had golden hair that was bobbed at her shoulders and curled fetchingly toward her delicate jawline. She had striking emerald eyes that immediately made Dorcas think of the beautiful girls that constantly entered the record shop in pursuit of Bobby. 

“What’s his name?” The cheery redhead asked. Her friendly face was freckled with deep brown and expressive eyes. “Mine is Cherry,” she added, extending the gloved hand that was not currently holding a kitten toward Dorcas. “Cherry Weasley.”

Dorcas took her hand and was about to answer, when Cherry cut her off once more. “This is Anneliese Epping,” she said, sitting next to Dorcas with her feet resting on Dorcas’s trunk. 

Anneliese looked up in embarrassment, for in that very moment she had decided to risk summiting the discarded trunks to enter the compartment, her slip showing a little at the hem of her sage colored traveling suit. She stood, straightening her matching hat and flushed. 

“Hello,” she stammered, taking Dorcas’s outstretched hand before settling in a seat opposite Cherry and Dorcas. 

“Anneliese is a Muggle-born,” Cherry said, stroking Bing absently. “Isn’t that fascinating?” 

Dorcas was about to reply, looking between the two of them. She was cut off again. 

“Merlin!” Cherry exclaimed, causing Anneliese to jump slightly. “Are you a Muggle-born too?” She held up the  _ Photoplay _ as if providing a helpful visual aid. 

Feeling dimwitted, Dorcas answered in a low voice, “I don’t know what a Muggle-born is.”

“Then you have to be!” Cherry pronounced jubilantly. “Oh it’s not an insult,” she added. Dorcas must have looked crestfallen. Cherry hastened to explain. “A Muggle is someone who is non-magical.”

Dorcas thought for a moment. “My mother is a witch and I suppose my father was magical too. But my uncle is not magical, though my grandparents were” Dorcas responded with a shrug. 

Cherry nodded from behind the open magazine, flipping from page to page. “So he’s a Squib,” she said. It was not a question. She said it more like a teacher introducing new vocabulary to a student. Bing curled up on Cherry’s wool skirt and licked his paw contentedly. 

Anneliese seized the momentary pause that the magazine had inspired in Cherry to address Dorcas. “As Cherry has already told you, I am Anneliese and I am Muggle-born.” She smiled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Dorcas Clerey. This is Bing,” she said gesturing to the purring kitten. 

“I love Muggle fashion,” Cherry said with a sigh. “Mother is going to take me to Marks and Spencers for my birthday.” She said this as if she were speaking of a holiday on the French Riviera instead of a department store. 

But Dorcas could understand. She loved those rare Sundays when her mother did not have to work and they would take an afternoon and go to the posh part of town to walk through the department stores and dream of a different life. 

“I’m telling you it all adds up,” came an impassioned voice from the corridor. “The ink’s not even dry on that agreement with the Russians and now there’s all these lies about Polish aggression. Hitler’s got his sights on Poland. He’s going to invade,” the owner of the voice came into view, framed in the open doorway to Dorcas’s compartment. He was gesturing to a newspaper he held up, while calling back to others behind him. His foot hit the discarded trunks belonging to Cherry and Anneliese, causing him to stumble. 

He recovered quickly, sweeping blond curls from his forehead and looking into the cabin. He was a handsome boy with wide, expressive blue eyes. They were made even brighter by the conviction with which he had just been speaking. 

Tucking his newspaper under one arm he hauled one trunk into the compartment. 

“Come on fellas, let’s help the ladies with their bags,” he said with a smile that crinkled his eyes. 

Dorcas felt her cheeks heat when he looked at her. 

The “fellas” of whom this blond boy had been speaking appeared on either side of him. As he grappled with Cherry’s trunk, one of the others began stacking two hat boxes while the other tugged at Anneliese’s trunk. 

“Ladies,” the blond boy greeted them, securing Cherry’s trunk in the overhead rack. “Caleb Meadowes at your service.” He glanced once more at Dorcas with a wink. She knew that her cheeks were scarlet and the thought made her blush even more with embarrassment. 

“Is this one yours, Miss Clerey?” he said, bending close to her to pull her trunk from the floor as well, pointing to the stenciled name on the side next to the handle. 

She was suddenly the stupidest girl in the world, casting around frantically in her mind for the correct answer to the question he had just posed as if this were a complicated riddle. 

“Yes, and she’s most obliged, Caleb,” Cherry answered for her. “This is Dorcas Clerey,” Cherry continued confidently. “And behind you, Anneliese Epping.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and introduced herself with a flourish. Dorcas was awed and jealous of the ease with which Cherry seemed to say anything to anyone without stammering or blushing. 

“Hi” Caleb heaved Dorcas’s trunk to rest beside Cherry’s on the rack. 

“Britain will give in like they have before. That’s what my dad says,” replied the boy carrying Anneliese’s hat boxes. He was so preoccupied with their discussion from the corridor that he did not look up from the load he was carrying to notice the three girls. “The Rhineland, Austria, the Sudetenland,” he rattled off in argument to Caleb's previous point. 

They had clearly been in the middle of an intense debate about current affairs. 

Caleb made no counter argument at that moment, but turned to address his friends, “Gentlemen, may I present Cherry Weasley, Anneliese Epping, and Dorcas Clerey.”

“Pleasure,” replied the distracted boy with the hat boxes. He leaned over the seat that Anneliese was sitting in so that he could put the boxes on the rack above her. She moved her knees primly to one side in order to avoid brushing his. 

He seemed to look away from his task only after completing it, with a stunned expression on his face to see the seat over which he had been leaning occupied. Stepping back to allow Anneliese her personal space, he introduced himself. 

“I’m Beau,” he stammered at Anneliese, smoothing his light brown hair self consciously. “Beau Haywood.”

He turned quickly, a rose tinge to his cheek that Dorcas found comforting. She was not the only one with this dreadful personality flaw, she thought, relieved. 

Beau helped the third boy to stow Anneliese’s trunk and the three of them took seats in the compartment, Beau and Caleb next to Anneliese and the boy who had not been introduced next to Cherry. 

“And you are?” Cherry asked, batting eyelashes and flashing a winning smile. She turned to the boy sitting next to her. 

“Darren Barton,” the boy replied, looking nervously at his two friends for assistance. Dorcas imagined a poor fly caught in a web. 

“Darren,” Cherry said airily. “What a handsome name.”

Beau cut in, moved to act by his friend’s pleading look. “France and Great Britain will give in like they always do. Hitler’s been allowed to rearm his whole military and no one has stopped him.” 

“A few well-placed Aurors would take care of Hitler for good,” Caleb added. 

Aurors. Squib. Muggle. Dorcas was feeling as if she needed a dictionary handy. She resolved to find the library at Hogwarts as soon as she could and educate herself. 

Darren finally found his voice, though he was inching away from Cherry as she shifted closer to him. “You don’t expect that wizarding communities will get involved do you?” 

“Why not?” asked Beau, baffled by his friend’s statement. 

“Because it's not our fight,” Darren said hotly. 

Dorcas realized what topic the debate had been circling at that moment. It was not really about what France, or Great Britain, or what any other country would do next, really. It was about whose fight it was: non-magical alone, or non-magical and magical together. 

She had heard many disembodied voices on the radio over the past few months, debating intricacies and nuances of this move by Hitler, or that move by Stalin. What would Mussolini do next, or would Franco join an alliance. It all came down to one thing really, Dorcas had decided: Everyone looked to someone else to act first. 

“But there’s only one world, right?” 

All eyes were on Dorcas. She had not spoken since the boys had entered the compartment. 

She glazed around uncertainly. Five pairs of eyes looked directly back at her. 

She continued cautiously, feeling like an idiot for opening her mouth and butting in. “I mean, there’s no magical world and non-magical world. We all live in the same country, don’t we? If Hitler threatens the Muggle way of life,” she paused, trying out the new word “muggle” and hoping she didn’t blunder. “Doesn’t he threaten all ways of life? It seems to me that the wizarding world has as much to lose if the Nazis threaten our country as the Muggles do?”

No one replied for a moment. She looked at her hands in her lap, feeling for all the world like a prize moron. 

“I agree.”

Dorcas lifted her eyes from her lap and looked at Caleb, hoping the color didn’t rise in her cheeks again. He was staring at her with a look of admiration, the smile on his face crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

Bolstered by this affirmation, Dorcas entered more confidently into the discussion with Caleb and his friends. Anneliese interrupted every once in a while to ask a question. Cherry broke in to compliment Darren’s points every so often. 

They passed the remainder of the train ride discussing and debating all manner of subjects. 

When all students and luggage had been deposited on the Hogsmeade platform, Cherry, Anneliese, and Dorcas left the boys to join the other first years at the edge of the lake where they would soon venture across the water to Hogwarts. From there they would be sorted into houses and welcomed to the wizarding school. 

On that day, Dorcas had made a cadre of faithful friends and found lively and stimulating conversation. As they chugged northward on the Hogwarts Express and debated the future prospects of war, they were all unaware that tanks and planes in their thousands had barraged the Polish border breaking its defenses and swarmed toward the capital, Warsaw. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

5 September 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

“I want you to go back, as far as you can, to the first time you remember meeting Jim.”

Dorcas paused, pen hovering over her notepad, to study her client. With one fingertip, she pushed her white winged reading glasses up the bridge of her nose. 

She leaned back a little in her chair, crossing her legs, smoothing her navy wool skirt over her knee. She projected a wave of calm. She was so well versed in exuding a tranquil feeling to the people around her that it came as naturally as breathing. She had been doing this since before she was even aware that it was a peculiar gift of hers. 

Her mother used to always say that she was “good with Morty” referring to her uncle who lived with them while she was growing up. He had a multitude of challenges, not the least of which was a nervous condition that caused him to scream uncontrollably at unseen terrors or writhe on the floor in fits of convulsions. She could calm him better than anyone else.

She could see Theresa’s chest rise and fall with a steadying breath. She knew that the mood she was projecting had seeped into her client’s mind. 

Theresa lay on the couch that Dorcas had selected for her private office. All of the furniture was white with little accents of misty purples and blues here and there. The artwork on the walls were watercolor birds of varying species. Behind her desk hung a collage of credentials, all proud accomplishments of Dorcas’s. A Doctoral Degree from Columbia’s School of Psychology, her Certificate of Clinical and Forensic Psychology Partnership with the New York City Police Department, and her License of Mind Malady Examination from the Magical Congress of the United States of America. Along with other various accolades that filled the space behind her organized, but overburdened desk, they served as reminders to Dorcas that circumstances in her past could have conspired to bury her in doubt and self-pity, but she had defied them and had instead directed her life toward purpose and meaning. 

With a shaking voice, so faint that it was almost a whisper, Theresa spoke. “I first saw him in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic…” Dorcas studied her client’s face. Theresa was shaking slightly, clutching a velvet pillow of the faintest blue to her chest as if it were a life preserver. 

“Keep breathing, Theresa. You are doing superbly,” Dorcas said encouragingly. 

Theresa nodded in response and took a cleansing breath, audibly blowing out and in until she could continue her description with an even and sure voice. Tears began to leak from the corners of Theresa’s eyes and traced trails to the white blonde hair at her temples and she relaxed recumbent on the sofa. 

“Focus on that thought,” Dorcas continued, setting aside her notepad and pen on the end table next to her. Removing her reading glasses and allowing them to dangle from a pearl chain around her neck, she rose from her seat and collected a wooden stand with six glass phials from her desk. 

“Picture every detail that you can remember.” 

Dorcas set the wooden stand of phials on the coffee table in front of Theresa and bent over her, removing her wand from the inside pocket of her wool blazer. In a clinical voice, Dorcas talked Theresa through her actions so that she would not be surprised by Dorcas’s movements. Though, after five sessions, Dorcas was confident that Theresa did not need a talking through anymore. It was a procedure she was very familiar with. 

Dorcas placed the tip of her wand to the left temple of Theresa’s head and drew it away slowly. Between the wand tip and the woman’s temple wound a silky pearlescent thread. When Dorcas’s wand was about four inches from Theresa’s skin, it broke off and hovered in Dorcas’s wand’s wake. Quickly unstoppering the last empty phial in the stand, Dorcas gently deposited the memory for safe keeping, tapping the label already taped there. A neat writing began to dance across the label with the patient’s name and date of the session. Dorcas replaced the stopper and placed the delicate glass container among its filled and labeled siblings. 

Grabbing a box of Kleenex from beside the wooden phial stand, Dorcas turned, handing a few sheets of tissue to her client, helping her to sit upright and perching on the sofa next to her. 

Dorcas placed a comforting hand on Theresa’s back, rubbing circles between her shoulder blades as Theresa mopped her eyes. “I just miss him so much and I don’t understand any of this.”

Dorcas nodded understandingly. “It’s going to take some time. But you are doing marvelously. We will get the answers you’re looking for.” She smiled reassuringly. 

She stood with Theresa in the entryway of her new home that she and Cal had spent the last three months decorating with all of the personal touches that reminded her of their three bedroom apartment in Manhattan. 

“I will see you again next week,” Dorcas reminded Theresa as she held the front door open for her. 

She watched her client walk down the garden path and to the sidewalk. Waiting for her there was the same man that accompanied her on most of her sessions with Dorcas. He was, as Dorcas always found him as she walked Theresa out, leaning lazily against her front garden fence smoking a cigarette. He had a dark James Dean look about him and he wore too much cologne. Dorcas pushed the judgement down. She would provide support and council to Theresa. This man did not concern her. 

He looked away from her finally, turned with a flick of his spent cigarette into her immaculate garden and threw a possessive arm around Theresa. Rebel without a cause? Hardly! More like prick without a clue. 

Her daughter, Wren, and their neighbor Mrs. Peake came up the walk just as she was about to close the door. 

“Mama!” Wren said, releasing the neighbor’s hand and rushing past Dorcas into the house. 

“We made this,” Mrs. Peake was holding out a watercolor painting of Howdy Doody the owl. Dorcas took the artwork, instantly cheered. 

“Thank you for watching her again!” Dorcas said heartily to her neighbor. 

“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Peake replied. “Must go. Dinner in the oven.” She turned and retreated, waving a genial goodbye to Dorcas as she crossed the street to her own home. 

“Daddy’s downstairs,” Dorcas called to Wren, setting the painting on the table by the door, vowing to find a prominent spot in her office for it. “Go and play, darling. Mama's going to get ready to meet her friends.” 

:::

5 September 1957 Charing Cross Road, London

Dorcas tucked her black silk bag under her left elbow, freeing her right, maroon gloved hand to pull on the brass railing of the door. She was brought up short by a man passing on the sidewalk who insisted on opening the door for her. 

“Thank you,” she said, blushing slightly. She was not used to this kind of gallantry from strangers. These were the kinds of fawning actions of men struck dumb by her stunning friends Cherry and Anneliese. Dorcas was always satisfied to feel the secondhand glow of her beautiful schoolmates, rather than have the spotlight shine on her directly. 

Speaking of her beautiful schoolmates…

She scanned the club’s bar and scattered tables for their familiar faces and did not see either one. Was she early? Did she have the wrong place? She checked the handwritten note she found stuffed in her bag from Anneliese. 

She was on time and in the right place. They must be late. 

Dorcas found a seat at the bar. The place was only half full, mostly men. 

She tried not to fidget. She felt so out of place in a scene like this. She usually had Cal with her on an evening outing. She felt very unlike herself, alone at a bar. 

Dorcas caught the bartender’s eye. He came over with a drink before she’d had a chance to order. 

“Gin and tonic for the lady,” the bartender said, setting the drink down on a cocktail napkin in front of her. 

“Oh,” Dorcas exclaimed, surprised. “But I didn’t…” 

The bartender pointed to the opposite end of the bar. Dorcas followed his indication and found Tom sitting there smiling at her. He picked up the hat that sat next to his drink, gathered his coat from the back of his stool and took his drink down to her end. 

“Hey, Birdie,” he said. Instantly a familiar and comfortable feeling replaced Dorcas’s sense of being out of place and awkward. 

The comfort of a familiar face was instantly replaced by that curious battle of feelings that Dorcas had experienced over a week ago when she and Tom had unexpectedly met in Diagon Alley, not far from here. 

“Hello, Tom,” Dorcas said brightly. She was determined to keep her warring emotions in check. “Thank you for the drink.” She gestured to the empty seat next to her and Tom took it. 

She thought about the choice of drink for a moment. Usually, men tried to impress women they wanted to pick up at bars with ridiculously frou frou cocktails. She smiled. Whatever her confusing feelings for Tom were, she had to admit, he knew her well. 

“Are you here alone, or meeting someone?” Tom asked, sipping something amber colored on the rocks. 

“Cherry Weasley and Anneliese Epping,” Dorcas said and then corrected herself. “Anneliese Haywood.” 

“Twenty minutes late to everything,” Tom said, chuckling a little as he sipped his drink. “Cherry Weasley’s signature move.” 

Dorcas genuinely smiled and laughed at this remark. It was true. 

“You look beautiful tonight, Birdie,” Tom said, studying her. 

She looked at her glass, knowing that if she met his eyes, that involuntary blush would give her away as it always had. And she knew he loved it. She traced the rim with a gloved finger. She could feel his eyes taking in every detail of her profile, her carefully styled and pinned black hair, the pearl teardrop earring, the black cocktail dress and maroon damask evening coat she wore. 

When she could take the scrutiny and the silence no longer, she cleared her throat and asked, “Do you come here often?” she waved a hand to reference the general area. 

“Not often,” Tom said dismissively. “I was just meeting with a client.” 

She nodded companionably and sipped.

“Do you still sing, Birdie?” He glanced in her direction again. His head nodded in the direction of the low stage at the other end of the darkened and smoky room where a jazz trio was improvising. 

She met his eyes momentarily and shook her head. “Goodness, that was a long time ago. I’ve got no time for that now.” 

The mention of her young and foolish singing ambitions unsettled her. She felt his eyes on her again and knew instinctively that he was studying her once more. He seemed to be noting her reaction to his question. 

She felt apprehension bubbling up in her. Memories that only the two of them shared began to resurface from a depth within her that she rarely dared to acknowledge. She heard a familiar piano riff, muffled at first and then louder, a spotlight, the feeling of complete elation that she felt standing in front of a microphone. And then a dark alley, a cold brick wall against her back, someone else’s hands on her, pushing her, restraining her. And the body of a stranger lying at her feet. At Tom’s feet. 

Dorcas felt her throat tighten. She had forgotten how to swallow. Stars danced momentarily before her eyes. Shaking her head to dislodge the stars and the music and the memory, she took a steadying drink. 

“Easy, Birdie,” Tom said with a smirk. 

Dorcas knew that he had been calculated in the words he’d used. The questions he’d asked. He wanted to remind her of the times that they shared; the secrets they shared. 

As if she could ever forget. 

“Paging Dr. Dorcas Clerey-Meadowes,” a boisterous voice said behind her, laughing. 

Dorcas spilled her drink on the bar as she jumped, jolted back to the moment at the sound of her own professional monicher. Tom passed her a napkin deftly. 

She turned and saw Cherry and Anneliese behind her. Cherry looked like a Christmas bauble in emerald with her auburn curls. The effect was charming. Anneliese, a cool blonde in a silver cocktail dress and matching heels. 

“You remember Tom?” Dorcas asked standing and tossing the sodden napkin on the bar top. Tom had already risen and pulled her barstool back for her. She breathed deeply, valiantly trying to slow her heartbeat. 

“Yes, I do,” Cherry said, eyes only for Tom. “Tom Riddle you are as handsome as I remember.” She cut across Anneliese and held her hand out to Tom. 

He took it and kissed it. Ever the charmer, Dorcas thought. 

“Hello, Tom,” Anneliese said, always more reserved than Cherry, a perfect counterpoint. 

“Cherry. Anneliese,” Tom returned, placing his hat on his dark curls and bowing slightly to the ladies as he did. He gathered his coat and tossed some Muggle money on the bartop. “Lovely to see you ladies.” Turning to Dorcas he added, “I’ll leave you to your friends. Have a nice night.” 

Still feeling a bit dizzy in the after effects of the images that he had recalled to her mind, she struggled to steady herself and muttered a goodbye as she was engulfed in Cherry’s hug. 

“That man could be in the pictures,” Cherry said. “Cary Grant, watch out!” She laughed. “Are you cheating on Cal with Tom, Dorcas?” She dramatically fanned herself. “I’ll be mad if you’re not!” 

Dorcas watched him exit the club, pausing to hold the door open for two ladies who were entering. And then he was gone. 

:::

5-6 September 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas unlocked her front door as quietly as she could. The house was dark, except for the light in the entryway that Cal had left on for her. She kicked her heels off and left them beside the rug. Her purse and evening coat she discarded on the entryway table next to a vase of flowers and Wren’s watercolor owl. She extracted her wand from the silk handbag and stuck it behind her ear. 

She had spent a pleasant night with her old chums. Since she had moved back from the states, she and her girlfriends had become as thick as thieves again. 

But throughout the floor show and the drinks and the laughs, she could not shake Tom’s last question, and its implication. 

Instead of turning left toward the hallway and the room she shared with Cal, she turned right and into her home office. 

She found the notepad she had laid aside during her afternoon session with Theresa Allen. Picking it up, along with her reading glasses, she crossed to her desk and sat down. Rummaging in a file system behind her desk with one hand, she slipped on her reading glasses with the other. Things came into focus a little better, but the gin and tonics made perfect vision unattainable at the moment. 

Dorcas was not a drinker. She reckoned that tonight’s overindulgence had been all thanks to Tom. 

She located Theresa’s file and scanned through the notes from the past five sessions they’d had together. In the margins of each of these sheets were notes scribbled later, once Dorcas had had a chance to analyze her patient’s memories at length. She had begun to notice a pattern emerging. This last memory, discussed and then collected earlier today should confirm or cancel that notion. 

“I want you to go back, as far as you can, to the first time you remember meeting Jim,” Dorcas had prompted Theresa. 

The first time you remembered meeting him. 

Dorcas stood up, removing her glasses and letting them dangle on their chain. She went to the cabinet standing in the corner of the room. Opening the doors, she was bathed in the soft glow of several rows of memories stored in neatly labeled phials. Dorcas began to reach for Theresa’s wooden container of collected and labeled memories. Then, her hand paused just before taking out the final phial she had stoppered just that afternoon. Before she realized what she was doing, she had lifted a jar from the bottom shelf of the cabinet instead, its mercurial substance lazily floating inside the container. 

A shallow ceramic basin painted with indigo runes sat on a mahogany table next to the cabinet. Dorcas carefully closed the cabinet doors, jar of silvery mist in hand and turned to the basin. She gingerly sat the jar in the basin, picking up both carefully and returning to her desk. 

Opening the jar of silver mist, Dorcas poured it into the basin. 

She sat back in her desk chair and closed her eyes. She slowed her breathing and set her intention. The first time she had met Tom Riddle. 

When Dorcas could picture the room, picture herself, picture Tom; when she was confident that she could see every detail of their first encounter she reached for the wand tucked behind her ear and touched its tip to her temple. 

:::

20 October 1939 Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

_ Happy days are here again, the skies above are clear again _

Dorcas could not help humming the tune softly to herself. She was blissfully happy. 

Sure, she had felt wrong-footed from the moment she stepped onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters over a month ago, but she had finally started feeling like a native here and not a tourist in a country whose language she could not speak. 

She’d had a momentary disappointment during the Sorting Ceremony when first she was sorted into Ravenclaw, and then Anneliese into Hufflepuff, and finally Cherry had been sorted into Gryffindor. But she soon realized that this was not a permanent separation among new friends, only an expanding of friendships as she’d gotten to know her new roommates. Glynnis Howard, June Riley, Zelda Weston, and Charys Fletcher were all lovely girls. Dorcas nurtured a fond hope that they could someday be like sisters. 

She also found out during her first week of classes two very exciting things: number one, she shared Herbology with her fellow first year Hufflepuffs, meaning she had a class with Anneliese. And number two, she shared Potions with her fellow first year Gryffindors, which meant Cherry had a seat saved for her when she entered the dungeon classroom. 

She also had proved a deft touch at Charms and Transfiguration. She was hungry to know more and always felt an antsy anticipation for the weekend to end so that she could be in the classroom again. She found the library to be a kind of sanctuary to calm her jumpy excitement when she couldn’t be with her teachers sponging up knowledge and technique. 

She made good on her vow to herself on the Hogwarts express and sought the library and all of its answers the very next day during her morning break. She now felt confident that she could hold a conversation about Muggles, Squibs, and Aurors with any student raised in the Wizarding world without embarrassment. 

Dorcas was found to be in the library so often, humming to herself softly and flipping page after page, pulling vast armfulls of books from the shelves, consuming them and returning them to their rightful place that her peers had christened her Little Librarian. 

To some, she suspected the name was meant to be taunting, but she didn’t mind. She felt sorry for them. Their fingertips never tingled as they turned the page of a dusty old tome, eager to absorb its secrets. They would never know the joy of catching a tantalizing title that drew her to slip the book from the shelf and listen to its whispered wisdom. 

“Red Caps, Red Caps,” one boy was chanting to himself, wandering the aisle behind her. She recognized the voice. It belonged to a Hufflepuff in her year, Kelley McKinnon. They were in Herbology together. 

Dorcas continued to hum and scan. She was in the middle of a deep dive on Squibs. She was curious about her Uncle Morty; why was he non magical? She had always supposed that his medical condition had prohibited him from performing magic or going to school to learn. The more she studied this curiosity among the Wizarding community, she began to see that an inability to perform magic was understood to be a birth defect. 

“Ask her,” said another voice that she was becoming familiar with. Mohit Singh was a fellow Ravenclaw in her year. He was talking to Kelley McKinnon. “The Little Librarian will know.” 

Dorcas swiveled in her seat at the sound of her pet name. She looked behind her. Mohit and Kelley blinked back at her expectantly. Dorcas returned their stare, waiting for a lead. She saw in his mind what he was looking for: information on Red Caps. But she tried to be careful about presuming. She had learned quickly that not many students around her could hear and see thoughts like she could. If anyone had this ability, they were keeping it under wraps for some reason and, Dorcas reckoned, she would be prudent to do so as well. She waited for him to ask out loud. 

“Red Caps,” Kelley prompted. 

Nodding once, Dorcas pointed him in the direction of Magical Creatures references and indicated the shelves that held his quarry. She knew exactly where to find this information. Two days ago she had eagerly devoured books on the subject and then excitedly composed an essay for Professor Merrythought. It was due tomorrow. 

Dorcas reminded herself to see if Kelley needed help on her way down to dinner. She was worried that he’d left the assignment too late. 

“She’s got this place memorized,” Mohit explained to Kelley as they disappeared behind the stacks. “A mini-Poole.”

Dorcas was contemplating this last part. Madam Poole was the Librarian. She was helpful and knowledgeable. She also had dark hair like Dorcas’s. She reached a hand absently to her own dark hair, which at this moment, was plaited in milkmaid braids. She conceded the point with a shrug and returned to her book. 

There was an amused chuckle beside her. 

She turned in surprise and looked at her lone companion in this study corner. She had never heard a word, or even a sound, out of him. She had come to this secluded little spot for about two and a half weeks, she reckoned. He was always there like a fixture. Lazily thumbing through books. 

She could see under his reading light that the latest book to hold his attention was a hefty reference that listed name after name. Some sort of wizard’s genealogy, maybe. 

She had come to regard this boy as a comforting presence. A kindred spirit. Here was someone who had a true appreciation for the wealth of knowledge waiting to spill out of the cardboard and leather and parchment that filled this space.

Dorcas had never spoken to the boy, had never acknowledged him. They always sat in companionable silence. He would turn a page. She would turn a page. 

He was staring at her openly. His brown eyes were appraising her.

She felt her cheeks heat. 

He was handsome and self-assured. 

She noted the color of the tie that was draped lazily around his neck, untied. He was a Slytherin, but not in her year. She had Defense Against the Dark Arts with Slytherin House and he was not in her class. 

“You are a mini-Poole,” he decided in the next moment. 

She managed a small smile and thought about what to say to this. 

“You know a lot of songs,” the boy continued conversationally. 

“Huh?” said Dorcas stupidly. She knew her cheeks were a bright shade of pink now. The boy didn’t look away. He seemed to stare deeper, as if he could look inside of her and read all there was to know about her. 

“The humming,” he prompted. “Begin the Beguine, Embraceable You, Pennies From Heaven.”

He rattled off songs that, to Dorcas’s utter mortification, she could remember rolling around in her head as she flipped through books, wrote essays, took notes…

“Beer Barrel Polka,” he continued. “My favorite because you hum different variations, one for each of the Andrews Sisters’ parts.” He laughed again, leaning back in his chair. 

“I was going to ask if you do requests,” he continued to tease. 

She stared in wide-eyed humiliation. She couldn’t think what to say in response. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop doing that.” It came out in a hoarse whisper. 

“Antidotes. Antidotes…” Another student passed behind her searching for something. 

She seized on the change of subject. She turned and looked at a fourth year girl that she’d seen about the Ravenclaw common room. 

“The shelves just there. You’ve just passed them.” 

The girl jumped and turned from the books whose spines she was reading to stare at Dorcas. 

“Thanks,” she said automatically, turning and leaving the shelves without making a single selection. 

Dorcas turned back to the smirking boy beside her. The look on his face was bemused. 

“I’m Tom,” he said, gathering the large book he’d been scanning. Shouldering his bag, he held out a hand to her. “Tom Riddle.”

“Dorcas Clerey.” She’d made it sound like a question unintentionally, as if she sought his confirmation of her identity. 

He took her hand and shook it. “You don’t have to stop the humming. If I didn’t like it I would have moved.” 

He released her hand and swept past her with the dusty genealogy book under one arm. A whistled tune floated in his wake:  _ Happy days are here again. _

Dorcas collected her own things and, as the red faded from her cheeks, she went to go find Kelley to offer him her help with his essay. 

Hours later Dorcas stepped out through the door marking the Ravenclaw common room, she looked left down the fifth floor corridor and right toward the spiral staircase. 

She was anxious to find her cat and get back to her bed. She was not a rule breaker. She did not want to be caught out of bounds and lose points for her house. 

She quietly padded in her socked feet to the left along the corridor. 

“Bing,” she whispered. She dared not speak louder. She was afraid that her voice would echo along all of this silent stone. 

She tiptoed further and called again. 

She had turned one corner and then another. 

Dorcas became caught between two troubling scenarios: that she had wandered too far in the dark to find her way back to her common room; the other that her cat had wandered off and had gotten lost. 

The last thought made her redouble her efforts. She thought of all of the horrible creatures she’d read about in the library. Which, if any, could be lurking in the castle to prey on her kitten? 

“Bing?” she called a little louder, a little more frantically. “Bing, where are you?”

“America maybe.” 

The answer made Dorcas jump and give a little scream, which she stifled quickly behind her hand. 

Heart beating wildly and eyes wide as saucers, she turned and saw the boy she had talked to earlier in the library. He was reclining in an alcove a little way beyond her in the corridor. She never would have seen him had he not called attention to himself. 

“Somewhere like New York or Hollywood,” he continued, standing. 

Dorcas gave a sigh of relief that was so complete it made her shoulders sag. “My cat!” She ran over to Tom and gratefully took the bundle of fur that he had been stroking, nestled in the crook of his arm. 

“Your cat? Bing?” Tom smiled. 

“You shouldn’t be out here, Birdie,” Tom continued, turning and strolling back up the corridor the way Dorcas had just come. 

Dorcas cradled Bing against her chest. He was contentedly purring, apparently spending a pleasant night in Tom’s company. 

“You’re out here,” was Dorcas’s retort. 

“Yes, but I know the school a little better than you do,” he said, slowing so that Dorcas could catch him up. 

“How much better?” Dorcas thought there was a ring of a challenge in his voice. She wanted to know everything there was to know about this magical place. 

He walked in companionable silence for a time with Dorcas. She realized that she no longer had the frightening feeling that a teacher was going to leap out of a dark corner and give her a detention. 

She was rubbing the top of Bing’s head with her forefinger. She spared a glance at Tom. He walked with a casual and effortless gait, hands in his pockets. He seemed to be giving a lot of thought to her question. 

“There are a lot of secrets in these walls, Birdie. Sleep is a waste of time. We only get seven precious years here.” 

“So are there, like,” she cast around for fantastic magical attributes. “Secret passages and mysterious chambers with no doors or windows?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “You’ll never know if you’re sleeping soundly in your bed.”

She considered this for a moment. She supposed Tom had made a fair point. Sleep was important. She thought longingly about the warm blankets and soft pillows that awaited her in her dormitory. Dorcas felt the chill of the stone floor through her socks and the drafty corridor seemed to cut through her nightgown. But what creature comforts would she be willing to give up in the name of exploration? 

“What were you reading in the library earlier?” Tom asked, pulling Dorcas back from her musings. 

“What?” Dorcas cast about in her mind for a memory from hours before, sitting in the study corner that she had claimed as her own. “A book about how magic can affect the brain.” 

Tom nodded. He seemed to be considering something. 

They turned a corner. 

“What were you reading? It looked heavy?” 

Dorcas looked around. It was funny how the dark had rendered what had once been completely benign hallways and classrooms in daylight into a total labyrinth at night. Getting back was going to be hopeless. 

“Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy,” Tom recited. 

“Are you researching an ancient wizarding family?” Dorcas probed out of interest. 

She had been tempted to dig up information on her own lineage. Rackharrow was a name that came up with troubling regularity in connection with Dark Magic. This impulse was only checked by Dorcas’s fear that whatever she uncovered was probably worse than what she could imagine on her own. 

They rounded another corner, each footfall of Tom’s matched by hers. 

“I don’t have any idea about ancient, but yes, I’m researching my own wizarding line.” 

“Do you have any famous relatives?” Dorcas asked. After the words had come out, she wished she hadn’t said anything. 

His mood became momentarily somber. “I don’t know. I’ve never met any of my relations.”

“Oh,” came Dorcas’s inadequate response. 

They walked on in silence. But it was not a tense silence. 

Dorcas became aware of how far she had walked with him and stopped, looking back the way they had come. She was sure she would not be able to retrace her steps. She wondered if she would have to curl up in a corner somewhere and wait for daylight in order to find her way back. 

“What’s wrong?” Tom had stopped next to her, alert for voices along their path. 

“I just realized that I’m hopelessly lost. I don’t know where I am.” 

Tom laughed. “You’re funny, Birdie.” 

He gestured to the door to their right. It had a bronze eagle knocker and no doorknob. It was the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room. 

Dorcas felt foolish and relieved at the same time. She smiled a faint smile at herself. 

“Why do you keep calling me Birdie?” she asked, scratching Bing’s ear. 

“Because I like to sit under the branches of your tree and listen to your birdsong,” he answered simply, shrugging his shoulders. 

Her cheeks colored again at the reminder of their earlier conversation in the library. 

“Goodnight, Birdie.” 

He walked toward the spiral staircase and gave a comical salute before disappearing down the stairs, a whistled tune following his descent. 

She recognized the tune and blushed more furiously.  _ The Way You Look Tonight _ , by Fred Astaire from ‘Swing Time’. 

Dorcas turned to the eagle door knocker and listened to the riddle it recited to her. She answered quickly and hurried with her cat into the warmth of the common room. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

6 September 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas woke on her white office couch. She remembered her dive into her own memories, though she could not recall what had prompted her to do so. She sat up and placed her bare feet on the floor. She was still in her black cocktail dress from the night before. 

Someone had placed a blanket over her in the night. She hadn’t done it. She smiled warmly. 

Cal. 

He was a better man than she deserved by far. He had made it his life’s mission to take care of her every need. He was supportive; he pushed her to be a better person. He motivated her to seize opportunities in life. He was her champion. 

When she thought of the good in Cal––everything that she had no right to expect, but that he gave freely to her because of his deep and abiding love for her--her mind often enumerated the many ways in which she failed to be the wife he needed, the wife he deserved. 

Here was the proof, on a breakfast tray in front of her. 

He had laid out eggs, bacon, toast, and grapefruit. The steam in the coffee mug told her that everything was still hot and fresh. She was usually a grapefruit-and-coffee-only kind of person. This morning, however, she devoured all of the contents of the tray hungrily. Maybe it was the alcohol in her system that gave her such a robust appetite. 

Cal hurried into her office tying his tie. 

“Good. You’re up.” Straightening his Windsor knot he added, “I was coming to wake you. We’re due at the hospital today. Wren’s already fed, dressed, and with Mrs. Peake across the street.”

Dorcas swallowed the last bit of toast with the remainder of the coffee. 

She nodded, recalling her full diary for the week. Between patient visits for her psych practice, laboratory work, medical journal submission deadlines, and clinical trials for their latest potion at St. Mungo’s underway she had no time really for a girl’s night out. She was regretting her decision to meet up with her friends. 

She stood and her regret was twofold as she swayed on the spot with a momentary headache. She really could not hold liquor.

After her tense encounter with Tom, she had distracted herself with trying to keep pace with Cherry. She should have known that it was a fool’s errand. 

Muttering a quick thank you to her darling husband and placing a kiss on his freshly shaven cheek, Dorcas grabbed her wand and shuffled from the office and down the hall to her bedroom. She slipped off the wrinkled cocktail dress, leaving it in a heap on the floor and turned to the closet. She pulled out a dove gray sateen jacket and skirt and dressed quickly. 

Sliding the side zipper up on her skirt, she raced into the bathroom for a quick removal of last night’s smudged makeup, teeth brushing, reapplying of makeup, and an attempt to tame her hair. A professional knot at the nape of her neck was all she could manage at the moment. 

In the hall, Cal was holding his and hers matching lime green St. Mungo’s robes, his briefcase, and her silk evening bag. 

Slipping into the cast-off black pumps from last night, Dorcas transformed her evening bag into something more professional and followed Cal out the door. 

He was never a complainer. One of the multitude of things that made Cal the perfect man. She knew that her late night dip in the Pensieve and her lie in had cost him a treasured opportunity to drive his cherry red sports car into the city. Today they would have to Apparate. 

They came out at the storefront entrance of St. Mungo’s a moment later. Stepping through the grimy abandoned shop window, Cal handed Dorcas her robe as he slipped his over his shoulders. They hurried to the Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites. Here they had been testing a Blood-Replenishing Potion for several weeks. The results so far had been very promising. 

:::

21 October 1939 Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas hurried to her corner in the library. Her mind was full of the Potions lesson that she had just come from. In class, she and Cherry chatted quietly while concocting a Pepperup Potion following Professor Slughorn’s instructions. Dorcas loved Potions for two reasons: one reason was her friend, Cherry. The other reason was that she found the precise ingredients, heating, and mixing instructions to be a challenge that was thrilling to her. 

Slughorn was beginning to take notice of her skill. He often came over to her cauldron at the end of class and remarked on her potion’s textbook-perfect color, consistency, and smell. 

She grabbed a book from the shelf that stood behind her seat. That section contained the potions references that were for general use. Dorcas had not dared to venture into the Restricted Section yet. She laid her bag and book on the desktop top in front of her, pulling parchment, a quill, and some ink from her bag. 

Tom sat in the chair next to hers as usual. He was feverishly writing, quill scratching the parchment rhythmically. 

She opened the thick reference book, scanned the Table of Contents for Glover Hipworth, the potion’s creator, and set to work like Tom. Professor Slughorn’s assignment was to explain the side effects of the Pepperup Potion and possible causes for the side effects. She was intrigued to find out what she could dig up. 

As she worked on her essay, checking facts and scribbling sentences, a tune popped into her head. Duke Ellington’s ‘Ring Dem Bells’. She found that the uptempo melody helped her energetic writing. 

As she worked, she hummed. 

Tom’s foot tapped along to the beat. 

They worked in tandem like this for about thirty minutes. Scratching quills, a low-hummed tune, and a tapping foot. 

She did not notice when Tom stopped tapping and writing. 

“Birdie, can I ask you something?” 

Dorcas stopped writing and looked at Tom. “Sure.”

“That girl yesterday,” he pointed to the Potions references behind them. “The one who was scanning the books over there.” 

“Yes,” Dorcas recalled that the girl had given her a strange look, but didn’t take one of the books on antidote theory that Dorcas had suggested. “She was looking for antidotes but didn’t take any of the books that I pointed out.” 

“Exactly,” Tom confirmed. “She didn’t say anything, so how did you know what she was looking for?”

Dorcas tried to recall the details precisely as they happened yesterday. 

“Of course she did,” Dorcas said, covering her awkward answer by standing and searching for more titles in the stacks behind her chair. 

“No, she didn’t.” 

Dorcas pulled two more books from the shelf. She looked at Tom. He stared at her, unblinking. She had the feeling that he had been containing the impulse to ask her about this slip up since she had taken the seat next to him. 

She didn’t know what to say. She was angry with herself. She had tried to be careful about this little eccentricity of hers and had blundered so spectacularly. Maybe Tom would find her odd and not want to be her friend. Her heart sank at the thought. 

“Can you hear people’s thoughts, Birdie?” He whispered this so that only she could hear him. 

Dorcas blanched and looked around. No one was near. 

She took her seat again with the other two books, but did not return to writing. 

“I’ve been able to do it since I was eight.” 

Tom nodded but didn’t say anything. His silence was prompting her to continue. 

“I can sometimes get pictures from other people’s minds. Sometimes I hear the words that they’re thinking. Sometimes it's just a name or a phrase. I try to push them away, I don’t go looking into other people’s thoughts,” she rushed on faster in a whisper, trying to reassure him that she was not sifting through his mind every time they shared this corner together. “The thoughts just come to me. Sometimes, they push into my mind and I don’t want them to.”

Dorcas was desperate to make Tom understand that she did not want to do this. She wanted to make him understand that she would never spy on his consciousness or that of any other. 

“Please don’t tell,” was Dorcas’s final, whispered entreaty. 

Her face must have plainly communicated her fear and embarrassment. Tom smiled back at her and moved his chair just inches away from her. 

“Birdie, your secret is safe with me.” He held her gaze, communicating the gravity of this vow. “All of your secrets are safe with me.” 

The apprehension left her and she seemed to deflate a little in relief. 

“But tell me something,” he continued. “How did you learn to open your mind to the thoughts of others. You’ve been doing it since you were eight. Who taught you?”

Dorcas was confused by the line of questioning. 

“Taught me?” She blinked and stared back at Tom. 

“Yes, who taught you? Can your parents do it? Did they teach you?” 

Dorcas thought about this for a moment. She honestly could not say if her mother could do it or not. If she could, she had never given Dorcas any indication. As for her father, he was dead before she was born. She didn’t know much about him at all. Her mother did not talk about him. She told Tom this. 

He seemed to be considering something. He continued to stare at Dorcas as he thought. Dorcas resisted the urge to defy his mental autonomy, she was so desperate to know what he was thinking. 

“Can you flip through people’s thoughts? Could you search them for something the way one could search a book?”

Dorcas considered this. She felt confident that if she were comfortable breaching someone’s mental boundaries, she could sift through thoughts the way she could sift through a card catalogue to find what she sought. But she didn’t think she could ever do that to another human being. The violation of it sat sourly in Dorcas’s stomach. 

“I don’t think so,” Dorcas lied. She didn’t know why she said this instead of the truth. She trusted Tom, liked Tom even. But she didn’t want him to know about this capability. 

“I get the images and words and phrases that people are projecting. I think it’s just what is at the forefront of people’s minds at the time, pushing to get out.” 

He leaned forward. All of this time, he had never broken eye contact with her. His brown eyes held her gaze as if he were trying to breach her mental walls. 

“Do it now,” he said. It was a command. He was ordering her. “Do it to me.” 

Dorcas slid back in her chair as far as she could. A fear began to rise in her. She couldn’t decide if it was a fear born from having her secret laid bare, or if she was afraid of Tom. 

“I d-don’t think I c-can, Tom,” she stuttered. 

He was leaning very close to her now. Intimidating. 

“Try.”

Her mind was assaulted with a picture of a younger Tom in a field. Other children laughed and played in the background. Tom sat separately under a tree, tearing grass out of the ground beside him. He looked at the other children indifferently. He selected one of the longer strands of grass and held it cradled between his thumbs, cupping his hands and blowing into them, he made the blade of grass whistle faintly. Dorcas noticed a movement in the grass near Memory Tom’s feet. Dorcas wanted to speak, to call out to Memory Tom in warning. The snake hissed and Tom dropped the blade of grass. He returned the snake’s greeting. 

Dorcas pushed the scene to the back of her mind. She had only seen memories that vividly from her mother on two occasions. Both were related to her two uncles. Both had been when her mother had been mentally vulnerable, tired, or frustrated. Dorcas didn’t like the feeling of someone else in her mind, controlling the thoughts that she had there. Her mother had never done it intentionally. 

But Tom had. 

“I am trying,” Dorcas lied. “I can’t see anything.” She wanted to flee. 

Standing abruptly, she pushed her chair back so forcefully that she nearly toppled it backwards. She shoved her unfinished essay, ink bottle, and quill back in her bag. She tried to fix her features into a neutral expression. Tried to make her movements less frantic. 

Tom sat back and gave Dorcas some space. She was grateful for the small concession. He would not push her any further. 

Placing the strap of her bag on her shoulder, she lifted her three books and took them to the desk beside the entrance to check them out. 

Please don’t follow, Dorcas thought. 

A moment later she felt Tom tugging at her arm, urging her to turn and face him. 

“Clerey.” 

The cheerful greeting stunned her. It apparently had the same effect on Tom. She felt him withdraw his hand. 

The boy who stowed her trunk for her on the Hogwarts Express was standing at the desk ahead of her checking out a book from Madam Poole. 

She cast about in her jumbled mind for a name to put with the face. 

“Caleb,” she said, pasting what she hoped was a convincing smile to her face. 

“It’s Cal,” he corrected. “Please call me Cal. My mother calls me Caleb when I’m in trouble.” He flashed a wide and genuine grin. 

“What’s going on?” Cal asked this question as he stared between Dorcas and Tom. 

“Nothing,” Dorcas said casually, hefting her books into one arm to adjust her bag on her shoulder. “Just getting some books to write my essay.” 

Cal nodded, only half convinced. 

“Hey, Tom,” Cal looked past Dorcas. 

Tom nodded to Cal but didn’t say anything. 

“Mr. Meadowes,” Madam Poole said, holding Cal’s book out to him. 

Cal took the book with a, “Thank you, ma’am.” Stepping aside for Dorcas, he turned to address Tom.

“The Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson was good today, right?” Cal said genially. 

Dorcas handed her three books to Madam Poole to scan with her wand. 

“Yes,” Tom conceded. 

Dorcas looked back and caught Tom’s eye briefly. Hands in his pockets, looking innocent and benign, Dorcas wondered if she hadn’t projected her fears of being caught out in her secret onto Tom. He looked the same as he always did, kind and polite now. Maybe she had imagined the forceful and demanding ring to his tone when he leaned into her space and commanded her to see into his thoughts. 

She felt ashamed of the scene she had made. 

Madam Poole handed Dorcas her books and she turned to exit the library. Whether she imagined the rapid shift in Tom’s mood or not, she did not want to be around anyone right now. She wanted to hide in a corner somewhere and decompress. She felt as if her muscles were wound tight like a spring. 

Cal and Tom finished their exchange as Cal asked Tom, “Are you coming?” 

Tom made some excuse about finishing his work. 

Cal turned to Dorcas with a smile.

“Can I carry those for you?” Cal asked, adding her books to his. He grabbed the strap of her bag and shifted it to his shoulder instead. 

She followed a loaded down Cal out of the library, sparing a look back at Tom who stood where they left him. 

He returned her stare with a dark look. It seemed to confirm Dorcas’s instinct to flee. 

“I’ve been hoping to run into you,” Cal said, beaming down at Dorcas. 

“You have?” Dorcas responded distractedly. “Why?” She grimaced to herself. That last part sounded rude and she hadn’t meant it to. Her interaction with Tom was still fresh in her mind. 

Cal seemed to consider the question honestly. He shrugged and said, “I liked talking to you on the train. I like what you had to say.” He smiled at her. 

He was tall. Dorcas noticed that her head was even with his shoulder. 

“Oh.” She knew that this was a lame reaction to his genuine reply. 

“Do you like Quidditch?” Cal asked. 

“I don’t know,” Dorcas replied. “I’ve read about it and it seems entertaining, but I’ve never been to a match.” 

Cal nodded in understanding, looking down at her. “The first time I saw a match was in my first year too--that was last year,” he added. “I loved it!” 

“Some of my friends who grew up in the Wizarding world told me about it, Darren--you met him--and my other friend, Nelu Patil. They are Puddlemere United supporters all the way!” 

Dorcas watched Cal’s face as he talked on about Quidditch. He was animated and enthusiastic. He made Dorcas smile and took her mind off of her conversation with Tom. 

“So you’re Muggle-born?” Dorcas probed, picking out the detail about being rather new to Quidditch. 

“Yes,” Cal answered. “My parents are not magical and neither is my older brother. It was quite a shock to all of us when I got my letter.” He chuckled to himself. “My brother’s in the Air Force.”

Dorcas understood a little more of the context of the conversation that Cal was having with his friends on the train when she’d met him. He was an advocate for an all-hands-on-deck approach to dealing with Nazi Germany because he was a part of the Muggle world, just as she was. 

“You’re Muggle-born too?” She understood why he would have thought this. Her views on the war ran parallel to his and she was a Quidditch novice. 

“Not really,” Dorcas explained. “I grew up in the Muggle world, but my mum is a witch. She works at St. Mungo’s. But we live in the Muggle part of London.”

“You are more interesting by the minute, Clerey!” Cal gave her a sidelong look as they continued down the corridor. 

“So it’s just you and your mum, then?” 

Dorcas shook her head. “My uncle lives with us. But he’s non-magical.” 

“Huh.” 

Cal was silent for a moment considering the information that Dorcas had just shared. 

“What about your father?” 

Dorcas shrugged. “He died before I was born. My mother doesn’t talk about him much. There’s a picture of him on my piano at home. And it moves, so I guess he was a wizard.” 

“A logical conclusion,” Cal agreed. “You play the piano?”

“Only a little,” Dorcas conceded. “I got the piano from my uncle for my birthday. That was just before school started. I can read music and pick out tunes. But I didn’t have much time to learn before coming here.” There was a note of regret in her voice. 

“Is your uncle a musician?” 

She thought of her Uncle Lysander playing an instrument in a band. Although, she knew very little of him. She knew that this would have been an absurd profession for him. She knew Cal was thinking that she referred to her Uncle Morty. 

“No. I have two uncles,” Dorcas explained. “My Uncle Morty lives with me and my mum. My Uncle Lysander gave me the piano.” 

Cal nodded absorbing all of the information. 

“So Uncle Lysander is your favorite because he bought you a piano,” Cal summarized. 

Dorcas laughed. “No. I don’t really know him. He and my mother don’t get on. But the piano was my grandmother’s and he wanted me to have it.”

“My mum’s family is an old Wizarding family. Big scary house--two of them, actually. Full of old Wizarding family skeletons, I think. I don’t know exactly what went on between them.” 

“What’s the name? There are a bunch of old families here. You probably go to class with long lost family members.”

Dorcas agreed. She did, in fact, attend school with relatives. Not long lost, just extremely distant. 

“Rackharrow.” 

Cal’s eyes went wide. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Dorcas agreed. 

“Gemma and Jonas?” Cal asked. 

“Are cousins,” Dorcas confirmed. 

Gemma Rackharrow was a dark haired, green-eyed third year Slytherin and her younger brother Jonas looked just like her. He was in the same year as Dorcas. She had Defense Against the Darks Arts with him. They had never exchanged so much as a glance between them. 

“We all have complicated family stuff,” Cal said affably, putting the subject to rest. “Here you are,” he added. 

They stopped in front of the Ravenclaw entrance. 

“Thanks for the company, Clerey,” Cal said, handing her back the stack of books and her bag. 

“I hope I see you around.”

“Me too,” Dorcas agreed, following another Ravenclaw inside. 

:::

26 October 1939 First Floor, Muggle Studies Classroom, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

It was an overcast morning and rain and sleet pelted the classroom windows. Dorcas was sitting in the Muggle Studies Classroom on the first floor off of the entrance hall during their morning break. 

Dorcas might have been tempted to seek out her quiet nook in the library and her new study companion had it not been for their unsettling disagreement nearly a week ago. She had also resisted going on nighttime jaunts around the castle. She was curious about the secrets of the ancient Wizarding school that Tom had alluded to. But she was afraid of meeting him in the halls. She did not want to resume the argument that had driven her out of the library five days ago. 

And, although she would fully admit to herself that she was being overly cautious, she had also developed a habit of ducking into the toilets in order to avoid passing him in the hall. 

Sitting with Cherry and Anneliese at a table, they were amusing themselves by charming a feather into levitating and watching Bing chase after it excitedly across the table top. 

“Do you think you like him, Cherry?” Anneliese asked. 

The three were discussing Cherry’s favorite subject, Darren Barton. 

“Does a bowtruckle like doxy eggs?” was Cherry’s cryptic response. 

Anneliese and Dorcas exchanged a quizzical look. Dorcas shrugged, unable to make heads or tales of the statement. 

Cherry rolled her eyes. “Yes, I do. I like him a lot.” 

The thing that Dorcas loved most about Cherry was that she was unafraid of anything. She was not intimidated to say exactly what she was thinking. Dorcas imagined what it would be like to possess such nerve. 

Anneliese tugged her wand to the left, pulling the feather slightly out of Bing’s reach. 

Other students were gathered at tables in the classroom as well. The cold and wet conditions had kept the entire school indoors. 

“I think we’ll still have practice, even if this doesn’t let up.” 

Dorcas heard Cal approaching their table. Without even looking over her shoulder, she knew that Darren was with him. This was indicated by Cherry smoothing the curls around her face and beaming at the boys as they drew nearer. 

“We can’t practice in a downpour,” Darren was arguing. 

Cal shrugged, taking the seat next to Anneliese. 

Darren seemed to be in conflict. He had started to take the seat across from Dorcas, next to Anneliese. But Cal had beaten him to it. This left Darren no choice but to sit across from Cherry.

Cal winked and smiled at Darren. He seemed to have left Darren only the one option intentionally. 

Darren sat down, returning Cal’s look darkly. 

“We need to get used to playing in all conditions,” Cal reasoned. 

Dorcas had learned that Cal and Darren were both the youngest members of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team. Darren was a Chaser and Cal played Keeper. Dorcas had read up on Quidditch, another foreign word that she had gone to the library to investigate weeks ago. 

It seemed as if Keeper was a position that typically required a player with a stocky build. Cal was tall and broad in the shoulders. She thought that this probably made him good at keeping Quaffels out of the goals. Darren was thinner and shorter. Dorcas had learned that this made him fast. She had not seen a match and therefore had no idea if either was any good at their positions, but she knew that they loved to talk about the sport obsessively. 

“You should come to the practice, Clerey,” Cal said, smiling from across the table. “You’ve never seen Quidditch, this will be a good introduction. You too Anneliese,” he added. 

As Dorcas was tired of hiding up in the Ravenclaw common room between class and dinner, she seriously considered the offer. She was weighing her excitement at seeing the sport played on broomsticks that she had read about against the probability of the rain and cold persisting throughout the afternoon when she heard another voice break into the conversation. 

“Birdie, let’s talk. Please stop avoiding me.” It was Tom. 

Dorcas jumped a little and looked over her shoulder. It sounded as if he was standing right behind her. She was stunned to see that he was actually about twenty feet from her, standing next to the open classroom door. Their eyes met across the room. 

She turned back to the friends that were gathered around the table. Cherry was staring at Darren and he was reacting with a deep blush, not meeting her eyes. She had missed what was said. Looking at Cal and Anneliese, engaged in teasing Bing with the feather, this confirmed what Dorcas had suspected. Only she could hear Tom because he was speaking to her, mind to mind. 

She looked back at the spot where Tom had stood. He was now gone from the room. 

Conflicted, Dorcas thought about the intense exchange that they’d had in the library. She had played it out often in her mind. Would he really keep her quirk a secret? On the other hand, she had liked the friendship that they struck up briefly over the past few weeks. Did she expect to avoid him forever? 

She felt she needed to clear the air. She would try being direct with him. She would explain exactly why she did not want to use her ability to prod through his thoughts or anyone else’s. She would take a page out of Cherry’s book and say exactly what she was feeling. 

“Excuse me,” she said to the group, standing and hanging her bag over her shoulder. She picked up Bing and left the classroom. 

She walked into the corridor and looked both directions. She had no idea where he’d gone. Turning right on a whim, she stroked Bing and walked, looking at the knots of students loitering in alcoves and stairwells during the break. 

“Birdie,” Tom’s voice called to her from behind a statue of a warlock in long robes trimmed with fur. 

As she neared the statue, she could see a secluded spot between the marble plinth and the wall. It was just big enough to fit two people. Tom sat with a book open on his knees, his back against the wall. 

Dorcas handed Bing to Tom, deposited her bag at the statue's base and sat down beside him. She placed her back against the plinth so that she faced Tom. 

Scratching the kitten’s ears absently, Tom stared at Dorcas. 

She shifted uncomfortably. 

“You heard me.” It was not said as a question. Tom simply stated a fact. 

“You knew I would.”

“What did you see in the library? When you looked into my mind?”

“I didn’t look into your mind, you forced your thoughts into my mind. There’s a difference.”

Tom seemed to be considering something for a long moment. 

Dorcas was trying to arrange her words so that she could communicate precisely why she was upset with him. 

Tom spoke first. “I’m sorry, Birdie.” He laid a hand over her ankle. His touch was warm and gentle. “I understand now that it was wrong of me to push into your mind. I will never do it again. Please don’t stop being my friend.”

She could feel how sincere he was in his apology. She had set out to tell him how she felt. To be direct like Cherry. But he had beaten her to it. 

Dorcas was relieved to have Tom fully understand what a violation it was to break into another person’s consciousness. She was pacified by his heartfelt apology. She was moved to hear him call her friend. 

“You are the only one who knows what I can do, Tom.” There was a plea in her voice. 

He gave her ankle a reassuring squeeze. “I already told you, all of your secrets are safe with me.”

A comfortable silence fell between them. Then Tom began to whistle. 

‘On the Sunny Side of the Street’, by Louis Armstrong. 

Dorcas recognized the melody and began to hum along. She smiled. Tom returned her smile, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

5 October 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas placed a grapefruit half on the table and turned to the coffee pot to pour herself a cup. She ran through a mental inventory of appointments today for herself and for Cal. He was going to be in the lab downstairs until one and then he would be at St. Mungo’s for two procedures until after dinner time. She had a day filled with client files and memory analysis for her psychiatry practice. She needed to finish reviewing one last memory for Theresa Allen. She had a pressing deadline with Theresa’s solicitor. 

She sat with her coffee and Cal passed her a letter. 

“From our girl,” he said, having just finished reading Ryann’s letter. He disappeared behind the Muggle newspaper while she picked up the letter excitedly. 

Scanning its contents, Dorcas was cheered by the tone. Ryann was settling in and making friends. Like her mother, she was sorted into Ravenclaw. And, like her mother, Potions was her subject. 

“She loved flying lessons,” Dorcas said aloud, surprised. 

“Like her father,” Cal folded down the newspaper and beamed. 

“All done, Mama,” was Wren’s contribution to the morning conversation. 

Dorcas finished reading and laid the letter down at her place setting. Hopping lightly to her feet, she smoothed her yellow checked button down and navy pedal pushers. Taking her plate and Wren’s she planted a kiss on the crown of her youngest’s head. 

“What a good eater,” Dorcas cooed. “Get your shoes on. We’ve got to get you to Mrs. Peake.” 

“I’ve finished too,” said Cal, collecting his plate from the table as well as the ones in Dorcas’s hands. He proffered a cheek for his reward. 

Dorcas planted a light kiss there, but not light enough. Her lipstick left a smudge. She wiped it and with a playful smack on his rear sent him to the sink with the dishes. 

“Check out the headline,” Cal called over his shoulder, indicating the discarded newspaper with his handful of plates. 

She picked it up and scanned while Cal did the washing up. 

“Russia Wins Space Race,” was proclaimed in bold across the top of the page. 

She read the article with interest. She was impressed. Yes, she knew that she should be shocked like a good capitalist, but she could not help the awe that she felt. Awe and vindication. To all of the Muggle-hating idiots she had ever encountered here and in the States, here was proof. Muggles had their own kind of magic. There was no difference really in the two. Magic came in many forms. 

There was a picture of Sputnik beside the article. She couldn’t take her eyes off of the alien ball with antennae sticking out at all angles. 

She opened the page and read on. 

From a smaller article, buried in a corner under the continued feature story she saw a face that looked familiar to her. It was the face of a man she had known in her past. A face that was cold and dead on a London sidewalk. 

Her eyes darted across the page, reading quickly. There was no name. The man had been killed two nights ago in a rougher part of the city. He was listed as a nameless tramp. 

“Cal,” she said, an anxious feeling rising in her. 

“Yes?” Cal answered, returning to the dining room, dish towel thrown over his shoulder. 

“Look at this,” she pointed to the tiny item at the corner of the third page. “He looks familiar.”

Cal took the paper from her and adjusted his horn rimmed glasses. “You know who it looks like to me?” He did not take his eyes off of the newsprint picture. 

“Gemma’s old boyfriend.” 

Cal nodded as Dorcas supplied the answer for him. 

“Callum Sayre,” he confirmed. “He was the same year as me. Slytherin. One of those superior pureblood idiots.” 

Dorcas nodded her agreement. 

“I remember him prattling on endlessly, the year the Chamber was opened. ‘Purebloods have nothing to fear from Slytherin’s monster’, and all that.” Cal’s voice faded out as they exchanged a glance. They rarely talked about that particular shared nightmare from their past. 

Dorcas had to look away, pretend to straighten the placemats again on the dining room table. Her heart was beating fast. She could hear it in her ears. She studiously avoided those events in the past, revisiting them could not help in any way. The dead were still dead. The guilty still alive and free. 

“Didn’t he disappear a couple of years ago?” Cal tapped the picture, looking to Dorcas for confirmation. 

Dorcas remembered a letter from Cherry mentioning this. She always kept Dorcas informed of the gossip from their Hogwarts cohorts. 

“Ready, Mama,” Wren had announced. Her shoes were on the wrong feet. Her stuffed rabbit in her hand. 

Her daughter’s voice pulled her from her musings. She bent to right the shoes on Wren’s feet and then bustled her out the door. 

“Be right back,” she called out to Cal, who was still looking at the newspaper. 

Hours later, Dorcas was in her office bent over the ceramic basin. She was plunging her face into the faint grayish white gossamer mist contained therein. 

Theresa’s memory floated in the misty, watery smoke. This was the last memory that Dorcas had to visit. It was the scene of the crime. She looked over her notes. She knew what to expect. And she felt confident that she knew what she was looking for, the pattern that she had spotted in the previous five memories. 

Dorcas felt herself drift slowly into the scene from above. She was standing in the corner of what once was a cozy sitting room. Furniture had been toppled, pictures smashed in their frames. Theresa’s nose was bloodied and the sleeve of her house dress was torn. Her husband, Jim was rounding on her, yelling at her. 

“You won’t leave,” Jim was saying. “You’ll never leave.”

He stepped closer. Theresa backed away sobbing and trembling. 

It happened quickly, Theresa crouched, anticipating a blow that was about to land. 

The ceiling caved in over their heads at the same time. Heavy timbers and debris fell on Jim’s head, toppling him, burying him. 

Staring in horror, across the dust and rubble, Dorcas and Theresa could make out the small form of a boy. William, Theresa and Jim’s six year old son, stood in the doorway, a witness to his father’s horrible death. 

Dorcas knew, because she had gone over this episode multiple times in her meetings with Theresa. Theresa believed that she cast a nonverbal spell without the use of her wand, which had lain at Dorcas’s feet in the corner throughout the memory. 

Dorcas was alert. She was looking for the same sign, the same scent on the air as she had smelled in the previous memories. She looked for the telltale glitch. The one that hinted at the fallacy of the scene she had just witnessed. 

The scent came, cigarette smoke and an overwhelming cloud of cologne. Dorcas knew the glitch would come next, something that would be just a little out of place, a little out of step. And she saw it when William entered the room and called for his mother: a skip in his step, like a film that had not been set on the reel securely. It was minute, nearly imperceptible. But Dorcas had seen the same type of incongruous motion, smelled the same smell in five previous memories. 

She knew that this was an altered memory. And she believed she knew who killed Jim Allen. 

:::

Dorcas carefully packed up the Pensieve, memory fluid, and Theresa’s memory phials into her Chanel bag. She’d placed Undetectable Extension Charms on most of her handbags. It was better than carrying a diaper bag everywhere when her girls were babies. It also came in handy for work. Less bulky than a briefcase or a satchel. 

She added a Cushioning Charm to this bag because it held such delicate items. 

Grabbing the gray cardigan from the back of her desk chair, she dashed into the hallway and down to the basement laboratory. 

Cal was carefully ladling an iridescent green liquid evenly into three beakers. 

“I’ve got to run to Theresa’s solicitor’s office in Diagon Alley.” She was pulling on the cardigan. 

Thelonious Monk wafted from the Hi-Fi on a shelf behind Cal. She wondered for a moment if he’d heard her over the jazz refrain. 

“Ok,” he looked up. “I’m at the hospital this evening.” 

Dorcas was brought up short, one arm halfway through a sleeve. 

“Wren,” she sighed, thinking quickly. 

“Let me call Cherry or Anneliese, see if they can watch her.” Dorcas flew back up the stairs, feeling like a bad mother for forgetting momentarily that she had a child that needed looking after. 

Hanging up the phone a moment later, Dorcas heard the doorbell ring. 

She crossed the sitting room and into the foyer to answer. Mrs. Peake greeted her with a smile, releasing Wren’s hand. Dorcas’s daughter sped past her and shot out into the backyard to play in the sandbox. 

Dorcas opened her mouth to ask if she could impose on Mrs. Peake for an hour or two more as Anneliese had not answered the phone. 

“Have a good afternoon, dear. I’m off to Bridge Club.” 

That put an end to that idea. 

She waited for Mrs. Peake’s form to retreat from the sidewalk again before taking her wand from her back pocket. She muttered  _ Expecto Patronum _ and a little shimmering bird shot from the end of her wand and disappeared out of the open kitchen window. 

Cherry was on her front step moments later. 

“You called. I came.” 

“Thank you, Cherry. You’re a lifesaver!”

Dorcas ran into her office grabbing the carefully packed bag and flinging a coat over her arm. “I’ll be back in about two hours.”

Cherry waved her off, fiddling with the coffee maker. 

Dorcas wondered what sort of state she would come home to find her kitchen in after Cherry Weasley had been alone in it for two hours. 

:::

5 October 1957 Diagon Alley, London

Dorcas stepped through the wall in the back courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron. Diagon Alley was bustling around midday. 

There was a chill in the air, not uncommon for early October. Dorcas slipped one arm into her coat, jostling her bag and wand from one hand to the other as she pulled the other arm in and flipped up her collar against the wind. 

She was not really dressed for a chilly, misty fall day, she thought as she looked down at her canvas flats and the legs of her casual trousers that terminated three-quarters of the way down her calf. 

She held open her handbag and pointed her wand at it. “Accio business card,” she muttered into her Chanel. 

A crisp card sailed from the depths of her bag into her wand hand. She closed the bag and nestled the strap into the crook of her arm. 

She looked at the card. She flipped it from one side to the other. 

On one side in neat professional script, the card read:

Gideon Prewett

Solicitor

There was a Muggle London address (not far from where she grew up on the East End) and a telephone number. 

Flipping the card over, it was blank at first. Then information began to appear. The same name, different title. Wizengamot Defense Counselor followed by a Diagon Alley address. 

The card made Dorcas smile. She had an affinity for those, like her, who lived with one foot in the Muggle world and one foot in the Wizarding world. For her, this was just the way she was raised. For Cal, it was a conscious choice, a thumbing of the nose to those who were vocal against magical and non-magical fraternization. She wondered about this Prewett and his views on the matter. 

She knew Gideon Prewett only through correspondence. She had never been to his offices, Muggle or Magical. He had reached out to her about Theresa Allen’s case after following some of her work in America. 

He’d been hired to help Theresa regain custody of her son, William. The boy had been removed from his mother’s care following his father’s death. Theresa had not spent any time in prison for the murder. Prewett had gotten her sentence reduced by arguing Involuntary Manslaughter. 

The Wizengamot had ruled the death accidental, but had removed the boy amid safety concerns. Theresa had caused her husband’s death through accidental magic. She did not use a wand. The issue of whether her volatile emotional state might present a danger to the boy seemed to have been decided against her. 

It was unusual for an adult witch or wizard to perform magic without the aid of a wand. Without a wand, spells and enchantments could become unfocused and uncontrollable. The average magical person could not perform such magic. There was a taboo surrounding those who were capable of such things. 

That’s where Dorcas had come in. She was asked to evaluate Theresa’s emotional state and to investigate its link to her magical capabilities. Dorcas inquired about other instances of uncontrollable, wandless magic. Theresa could not think of another time in which she had performed magic in this way in her adult life. 

That’s when Dorcas had asked her about the memories leading up to her husband’s death. A death that, as Dorcas had discovered in the Pensieve, Theresa was not responsible for. 

She crossed the street to a row of shops with offices on the second floor. She climbed the stairs around the side of the building and entered a narrow, dark hallway. 

The office she sought was at the end of the hallway and had the solicitor’s name painted on the frosted glass of the door. She knocked once and heard the office’s occupant cross the room. 

Prewett opened the door and stepped aside for her with a greeting. She’d been expected because she’d sent a note. 

Shaking the hand of the man that she had exchanged many professional communications with, Dorcas noted that he was younger than she would have thought. He was tall and broad shouldered like her husband. He had strawberry blond hair that was a little long and untidy. He swept it out of his eyes and tucked it behind an ear. 

He took Dorcas’s coat. 

Gesturing to a seat across the desk from his own, he shifted a stack of files there and dusted off the cushion for her. 

Dorcas sat, getting right to the point. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice.” 

“Not a problem. We both want to help Theresa,” Gideon shrugged, taking his seat and patiently waited for her to pull the contents of her bag out and arrange them on his desk between them. 

As she set up the Pensive, the jar of gray mist, and Theresa’s memories, she also handed Gideon a waiver that Theresa signed giving him permission to view and discuss the memories that she’d shared with Dorcas. 

“Shall we?” Dorcas stood and paused over the basin of swirling fog and memory. 

With a nod, Gideon stood and they tumbled in tandem into the first of the six memories. 

:::

Some time had passed, Dorcas was not sure how much, when she and Gideon emerged from the Pensieve. 

“There was a glitch in every one. And that smell.” Gideon sat back in his chair and looked out the window, lost in thought momentarily. 

Dorcas, using her wand, siphoned the last memory off of the swirling mist, placing it carefully back into its labeled phial. 

“I have a suspicion about what that could mean,” Dorcas hedged, packing the items back into her handbag and reinforcing the Cushioning Charm. “I am seeing Theresa tomorrow to review the memories. I think she’s a candidate for the Ex-Nebulae Elixir.” 

Gideon nodded, shuffling papers, looking for a form. 

“Can you petition the Wizengamot for a hearing?” Dorcas shrugged into her coat and took up her bag as she spoke. 

Gideon nodded, he was already writing, anticipating her request. 

“I’ll let myself out.” Dorcas opened the office door. She turned back to Gideon Prewett, who was concentrating on drafting the request. “Send me word when the date is set. In the meantime, I will be working with Theresa to see what I can recover.” 

:::

Dorcas exited the building into the dim sunlight and a chilly wind. She fastened the buttons on her light blue overcoat and hurried across the street toward the Leaky Cauldron where she could exit out into the Muggle world again. 

She passed through the wall and into the courtyard once more. Pushing open the pub’s door she came up short when she heard a booming voice from her past. 

Rubeus Hagrid was sitting with his back to the door that Dorcas had opened, singing loudly with two scruffy-looking wizards. All three seemed to be deep into their cups already. 

Dorcas retreated quickly into the alley way, letting the door close behind her. She placed a steadying hand against the stone exterior of the building and tried to catch her breath. She was deciding if she could walk unnoticed across the pub and out onto the pavement of Charing Cross without notice. She cracked the door to judge the distance. 

“Who are you hiding from, Birdie?” 

Dorcas jumped and cursed, closing her eyes and placing her hand to her chest. Her heart was beating rapidly. 

Tom laughed at her reaction, reaching around her and cracking the door the way she had done. 

“Tom,” Dorcas said, fixing him with a stunned stare. “You scared me.” 

“Clearly,” Tom agreed. 

“Are you hiding from Hagrid?” There was surprise and amusement in his voice. “What? Don’t tell me the two of you had a secret fling and it ended badly and now you can’t face him in public,” he invented, still laughing. “Yikes,” he added, shaking the mental image from his mind. 

“Don’t be stupid, Tom,” Dorcas said, dismissing his theory. 

He looked at her, sobering. “Why avoid Hagrid? What did he do?” 

Dorcas looked around Tom and back up the alleyway. She could leave Diagon Alley another way. She didn’t have to pass through the pub. 

“He didn’t do anything.” Dorcas said, exasperated. “It’s what I did.” 

Tom seemed to comprehend. She knew he would. “That was a long time ago, Birdie.” 

“I can’t face him, Tom,” Dorcas said, meeting his eyes finally. “I can’t go in there.” 

Tom smiled. “You’re a witch, right?”

“Huh?” Dorcas was confused. 

Tom shook his head as if he were indulging a little child. He grabbed her elbow and Disapparated. 

:::

5 October 1957 Galbraith Street, Poplar, London

Tom and Dorcas emerged into a small but tidy sitting room. She felt Tom release her arm.

She surveyed the unknown space. There was a worn leather armchair and a small table laden with books and a reading lamp. A fireplace and two more chairs beside it. The space was neat and organized, but spartan, a reflection of the man who inhabited it. Behind her was a small kitchen with a table and two chairs. A closed door beyond that. Dorcas imagined a similarly neat and orderly bedroom behind it. 

She turned to Tom. He was removing his coat and hat, placing them on a rack beside the door. Taking his wand from an inside pocket of the jacket he wore, he pointed it at the fireplace. 

“ _ Incendio _ .”

“Please, make yourself at home,” he said to Dorcas as he reached for her coat. 

She slipped off the coat and handed it to him, taking a seat at the small table in the corner of his kitchen. The space was so spotless that it gave the appearance of having no occupant at all. 

Tom walked past the table and Dorcas to a cupboard and removed two glasses and something amber colored in a bottle. 

He took the seat opposite Dorcas and poured two tumblers of the liquid.

“It’s not even one in the afternoon, Tom,” she chided, but secretly she would welcome the drink to soothe her nerves. 

“It’s after noon,” Tom shrugged with unapologetic logic. He handed her a glass and took up his own, touching it to his lips. He smiled and then tipped the glass, drinking. 

She took a sip too. It fortified her. 

“What was that back there?” Tom asked. He continued to sip and to stare at her. 

“I didn’t know what to say…” Dorcas began. But she couldn’t fit all of the regret that she felt at seeing Rubeus into words. “What could I possibly ever say to…” 

“He doesn’t blame you,” Tom filled the silence that trailed in the wake of Dorcas’s words. “Hagrid never holds a grudge against anyone for anything.” He shrugged. 

It was a simple statement, that last, but accurate. Rubeus Hagrid was a singularly unique individual in many ways. The fact of which made Dorcas even more sorry for the role that she had played in his dismissal from school. 

“If anything, he should be angry with me. But he isn’t.” Tom emptied his glass and poured another. “He doesn’t know anything about your involvement.” 

“I’ve tried to tell him; to write on numerous occasions. But I can’t even figure out how to start.” She looked miserably into her glass. She was glad for Tom. Who else could she talk to about the skeletons in her closet if not him? 

“Don’t.” 

There was a ring of commanding authority in his voice. 

In the next minute, a passive expression returned to his face. “What good would that do either of you?” 

Dorcas nodded and gulped, emptying her glass. Tom refilled it. 

He was right, of course. She must leave the past in the past and move on with her life. Nothing good would come of dwelling. 

“Change of subject,” Tom announced. “I’ve been following your career, Birdie. I’m so proud of you.” 

This made her smile faintly. She was also proud of all that she had accomplished. 

“You and Cal make quite a team,” he conceded. Dorcas detected a note of bitterness in his voice. It confused her. 

She nodded and smiled, thinking fondly of Cal. She swirled the golden liquor around in her glass. “You know, you should think about finding a partner too, Tom.” 

He laughed at her. 

“I’m serious,” Dorcas insisted. “You’re a catch, Tom. Any girl would be lucky.”

He shook his head, looking at the table top. 

“There will only ever be one woman for me.” 

Dorcas looked up from her drink now, staring at Tom. She could feel all that he was communicating without speaking it. 

Tom met her eyes. She had not noticed before in her preoccupation at the Leaky Cauldron, but something in Tom’s face was different, altered. The depths of his brown eyes were somehow hollowed. Eyes that Dorcas had known for so long, had stared into so many countless times, seemed less familiar. They were not the deep brown that she remembered. They were lighter now, almost the same color of the inch of bourbon remaining in her glass. 

“The one that got away,” he said softly. 

Dorcas shook her head. “You’re remembering what you want to remember. I didn’t break your heart. It was the other way around.” 

Tom nodded, breaking her stare, conceding her point. 

The reminiscing had triggered something in Dorcas’s mind about another individual from their past. 

“Hey, do you remember Callum Sayre?” 

Something deadly flashed in Tom’s eyes for the briefest of moments. It was so quick that Dorcas had convinced herself that she'd imagined it. 

“Yes,” Tom said, sipping again. “My year. My house.”

Dorcas nodded. “Dated my cousin.” 

“Yeah,” Tom said. “What about him?” There was something careful about the question. 

“I saw him in the newspaper this morning. He’s dead.” 

Tom furrowed his brow. He stared at Dorcas. “Dead? How?”

Dorcas shrugged. “There was a piece in the Muggle paper this morning. A photo of a dead body.” She shuddered at the memory. She hated when newspapers printed shocking photos. 

“It didn’t mention his name. He was referred to as a tramp.” Dorcas looked at Tom and shrugged. 

“Didn’t he disappear?” 

“Yeah, I thought so. Whatever he was running from must have caught up with him.”

“Guess so,” Tom said, finishing his second glass. 

:::

5 October 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Docas arrived home a little later than expected. She had not anticipated the detour to Tom’s flat. 

Cherry greeted her at the door in what Dorcas took as clown make up initially. She took a step back in surprise. 

“That’s a look,” Dorcas said, dropping her coat and handbag on the sofa in the sitting room. 

“What?” Cherry cocked her head, confused and looked into the mirror in the hall. “Oh.”

She took out her wand and cleared the comical makeup from her face. 

“How was she?” Dorcas asked, scanning the room for signs of Wren. 

“Angelic,” Cherry said, following Dorcas. “She did my make up.” 

“That explains it,” Dorcas laughed. She opened the door to the back yard. 

Wren was giggling on a swing, being pushed by Dorcas’s cousin, Jonas Rackharrow. 

“Jonas!” she said in surprise. Crossing the lawn, she kissed her cousin’s cheek. Dorcas and her cousin bore a strong resemblance. When together in their younger days, they were often mistaken for brother and sister. 

Cherry told her on one of their first outings after she and Cal had returned to the UK that she and Jonas had struck up a romance. Dorcas was thrilled for them. Cherry was bright and bubbly and carefree, Jonas was serious, but good natured. And Cherry deserved to be happy, Dorcas thought. 

Cherry sat down on a bench along the garden path. Dorcas came to join her. 

“Your coffee maker’s broken. And your toaster,” Cherry warned. 

Dorcas smiled. “Stay for dinner?” 

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

7 October 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas saw her patient to the door and, with a sigh of relief, returned to her office to prepare for Theresa Allen’s session in fifteen minutes. She’d had to steady her breathing and the anxious feeling that kept creeping into her chest, every time her mind wandered from the petty problems of the woman on her couch, blubbering about abandonment issues and a boyfriend who, after two years’ steady dating, was showing the telltale sign of being a commitment-phobe. Ordinarily, Dorcas could compartmentalize her patients’ needs, listen to them, and even empathize with them. 

But today, she was feeling terrible about her inability to concentrate on what felt like a trivial issue. Trivial, that is, compared with Theresa’s situation. Theresa believed that she’d accidentally killed her husband while her son watched. Her memory was being altered. She was being lied to, being made to feel as if what happened was her fault. Dorcas wouldn’t know the whole story until she used the elixir. 

Dorcas and Cal developed the Ex-Nebulae Elixir six years earlier. They had lived and worked in the US at the time. Dorcas first proposed the idea when she was working with a patient who was clearly dealing with some childhood trauma. Trauma that had been buried under a pleasant, average, rural Midwestern upbringing. She, of course, understood that Memory Charms were used by the unscrupulous witch or wizard to manipulate others. But there was really no way of knowing if this was the case with a patient. 

She and Cal had tested countless ingredients and combinations of spells for years. They tested potions on themselves, tweaking recipes, and painstakingly repeating the process. Dorcas smiled as she recalled those formative years in their marriage. They had really learned how to work as a team, how to trust one another implicitly. 

“Dr. Meadowes?” Dorcas heard her name spoken from the sitting room. Knowing she was the only one at home today, this made her jump. 

She heard her name called again. 

Stepping out of her office and into the sitting room, she came around the sofa and found the voice in her fireplace. The flames had roared to life on their own and the image of a face was just visible in them. 

It was Theresa’s solicitor. 

“Counselor Prewett,” Dorcas said in recognition, settling herself in front of the hearth, arranging her skirt to cover her knees. 

“Please call me, Gideon.” His smile was friendly. 

Dorcas nodded and spoke to the face licked by flames. “Has the hearing been set?”

“Yes, next Tuesday at nine o’clock,” Gideon provided. “You will be expected to give testimony. It will be the standard line of questioning from the Wizengamot prosecutor. But it will be a smaller court. Because we’re not arguing Theresa’s criminal case, merely petitioning the court for her son back, it will just be the Wizengamot Family Court.” 

He seemed to be trying to reassure her. She did not need it. 

“I have testified in all kinds of cases in court in America; criminal, family, business. You don’t need to worry about me. I know how it’s done, Gideon.” She remembered many occasions on which she’d entered the Woolworth Building to testify on behalf of one client or another in the courts of MACUSA. 

“Right. Of course, Dr. Meadowes.” 

“It’s Dorcas. I’ll be ready by next Tuesday. You can depend upon it.” 

Dorcas wondered if she should share her suspicions before they were confirmed by Theresa after today’s meeting.

“Listen, I’m about to meet with Theresa in about,” she checked her wristwatch, “ten minutes. Like I said in your office, I think I know who altered Theresa’s memories. Only, if I’m right, then Jim’s killer is someone close to Theresa.” She hesitated to say that the person she suspected often came with Theresa to her sessions with Dorcas. 

Gideon seemed to sense that she wanted to say more. “What are you not telling me, Dorcas?”

“The cologne and the cigarettes. I know who that is. That smell was in every one of Theresa’s memories. He was there. Even during the memory of Jim’s death. It’s Theresa’s new beau. He comes to her sessions sometimes. He waits outside.” 

Gideon seemed to consider what Dorcas had disclosed to him. “If he’s there today, he’ll know something’s wrong once you and Theresa recover her true memory.”

Dorcas nodded, relieved that he had come to the same realization as she had. She was beginning to convince herself that she was being dramatic. Having someone else voice her reservations lent them credence. 

“Can you keep Theresa at your house tonight?” Gideon asked. “I know that’s a terrible imposition. But I don’t think it’s safe for her to be alone. As for the boyfriend, let me deal with him.” 

Dorcas agreed to the plan. “It’s no imposition at all.” 

She said goodbye to Gideon and pushed herself up into a standing position again. She returned to her office and readied a tray. It was laid with a sterile needle. The elixir that she’d developed with Cal was next to that, a transparent, violet liquid in a glass phial. And, just in case it was needed, a Sleeping Draught. 

The Pensieve and Theresa’s altered memories were arranged beside the tray on the coffee table. A new, empty tray of memory phails was also set out. 

The doorbell rang. 

Dorcas hurried to the door. Theresa smiled. She was wearing a light purple house dress and a cardigan with butterflies embroidered around the collar. Her light blond hair was arranged in a neat ponytail. She didn’t have a coat with her though it was still chilly in the late morning. She was young, and Dorcas guessed, had once been rather pretty. She knew that Theresa’s ordeal had altered her. She had worry lines and dark circles under her eyes. 

“Come in, Mrs. Allen,” Dorcas said. She had sympathy for Theresa, even felt that there was a shared connection between them somehow. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt particularly tethered to Theresa’s trauma. 

Dorcas looked out into her garden and was relieved. Theresa’s usual companion was not with her today. There was, however, a very large barn owl sitting on her garden fence. Its head swiveled and its yellow eyes met hers. Then the head swiveled away and the bird took flight to a nearby tree. 

:::

17 November 1939 Transfiguration Classroom, Second Floor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas watched with avid interest as Professor Dumbledore transformed a chinchilla into a change purse. He demonstrated the incantation and the proper wand technique slowly three times. 

Next to Dorcas, June Riley gasped audibly in delight each time. 

Professor Dumbledore rewarded June’s enthusiasm by allowing her to pass out a chinchilla to each pair of students. Then, with a mischievous smirk, he asked the students to find a new partner. Someone who was from a different house than their own. 

There was a great shuffling of chairs and bodies as Ravenclaw and Slytherin students paired up. Dorcas was slow to react to the surprise instruction and feared for a moment that she would be the only student that had not done as the teacher had requested. 

“Do you want to be my partner?” came a sullen voice from behind Dorcas. 

She turned to face the speaker. A boy with close cropped black hair and green eyes was staring at her, waiting for a response. She recognized her cousin, Jonas Rackharrow. She had never spoken to him. Outside of Hogwarts, she had only ever seen him and his older sister Gemma at her grandfather’s funeral. 

Dorcas nodded and Jonas took June’s seat. June handed them a chinchilla. 

“Thank you, Miss Riley, for your assistance.” Dumbledore pointed to the back of the room. “It looks as if Mr. Rookwood is in need of partnering.” He pointed June to a small Slytherin boy in the last row and handed June the final chinchilla, taking the box from her. 

Dorcas performed the incantation and the proper wand technique and the chinchilla stopped scurrying and transformed into a small black beaded purse with a clasp. 

“Open it,” Jonas encouraged her. 

Dorcas shook her head. She couldn’t help but wonder if the chinchilla could feel pain; if opening the purse’s clasp and putting something inside would cause the creature torment. 

“I will,” Jonas said exasperatedly at her. 

Before he could touch the change purse, she had slapped his hand away and turned the pouch back into a chinchilla. 

“Nicely done, Miss Clerey,” Professor Dumbledore congratulated her. “And now you, Mr. Rackharrow.” 

Jonas had some trouble with the transformation. His change purse had soft black fur and squeaked a little. 

Dorcas decided to voice her concerns to Dumbledore. 

“Sir, can the chinchilla feel when it becomes a change purse?” 

Dumbledore thought for a moment. “Can a change purse feel?”

Dorcas shook her head, “No, sir.” 

Dumbledore smiled. “Quite right.”

Dorcas nodded slowly considering this fact. 

The professor corrected Jonas’s wand technique and then returned to Dorcas. “This is not a satisfactory response to your query, I know. But what kind of teacher would I be if I gave you all of the answers? But you could tell  _ me _ why this is so,” Dumbledore said. “For extra credit.” 

Dorcas smiled and nodded, eager to solve the mystery for herself. She made a mental note to look up animal to object Transfigurations in the library after Herbology and lunch. 

:::

Many hours later while most of the castle’s inhabitants slept, Dorcas was lying on the floor of the Great Hall with Tom. They sprawled themselves between the house tables and the teachers’ table up front. 

Tom laid with his arms over his head, hands clasped behind it, providing a cushion from the hard flagstone floor. Dorcas was similarly splayed, head resting in the crook of Tom’s arm, her hands playing with a thread from her jumper. 

“And it comes out in the cellar of Honeydukes sweetshop,” Tom explained. 

“I want to go sometime,” Dorcas said, fascinated. 

She and Tom had spent many nights wandering the halls and corridors of the castle. Dorcas reluctantly restrained herself from meeting Tom out of bed every night. She looked forward to the times that they roamed the lonely classrooms and passages all evening, but it had caught up with her. She had fallen asleep in History of Magic a week and a half ago. Professor Binns did not give her a detention. Instead, he had given Dorcas a stern talking to. For Dorcas, that was punishment enough. 

“I’ll take you, Birdie.” 

They had both been careful to keep the conversation light. Dorcas had not brought up their disagreement in the library almost a month ago. Tom likewise, did not bring up Dorcas’s peculiar ability again. Though Dorcas suspected on a few occasions that he had strongly resisted the temptation to do so. 

But Dorcas was thinking more and more about the curious memory that Tom had forced into her mind. She realized that, though he was the person that she’d spent the most time with at school, and that he was one of the people she trusted most, she did not know that much about him. 

She began to ask him about it several times on their nighttime walks, but she always stood down. Tonight she wanted to know. Had to know. 

“Tom,” Dorcas said, trying to choose her words carefully. 

“Hmm?” 

There was a pause. Dorcas watched the candles float lazily amid the enchanted ceiling, now black with flecks of silver and gold starlight. 

Dorcas decided to plunge ahead. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her at last. 

“The memory that you showed me,” she took a deep breath. 

“Yes?”

“I saw you, but a little younger. You were sitting among some tall grasses and there were kids playing in the background.” Dorcas stifled a yawn. 

Tom waited for her to continue. 

“Something strange happened,” Dorcas paused again. “It’s going to sound weird. Maybe I don’t know what I saw.” 

She felt herself shrinking away from the subject. She cast about in her mind for a change of topic. 

“What did you see?” Tom asked the question encouragingly. He did not seem to want to change the subject; seemed almost eager for Dorcas to continue. 

“Well, there was a snake that came up to you.” 

“Yes, I remember. It talked to me.”

“Yeah,” Dorcas propped herself up on her elbow in order to look into his eyes. “Did you talk back?”

“Yes, I answered it.” 

Dorcas stared at Tom. He returned her stare, not blinking. 

“What did you say?” Dorcas thought of how absurd a response this was. If it wasn’t for the darkness, Tom would have seen her color with embarrassment. 

“The snake said, ‘It’s hot today.” And I answered, ‘Yes, it is.’”

“Oh.”

Dorcas blinked. She guessed that some magical people had different and unusual abilities. After all, she was quite sure that only a few people could see into the minds of others. It was only natural, then, that others had talents like talking to animals. 

“What other animals can you talk to?”

Tom furrowed his brow. “I can only talk to snakes.” 

Dorcas nodded in understanding and laid down again. 

“Now you can hold on to a secret of mine and I’ll keep one of yours,” Tom said. 

Dorcas nodded. She fell asleep sometime later. 

“Birdie,” Tom said, shaking her gently. 

Dorcas felt his arms around her. She was comfortable despite laying on the cold stone floor for hours. 

“Hmm?” 

“It’s getting lighter out,” Tom said softly. 

Dorcas’s eyes fluttered open and she could see that the ceiling was showing navy blue and lighter on the eastern end, behind the teachers’ table. 

Standing, Dorcas stretched and felt stiff. Tom stood beside her. 

They walked in silence out of the Great Hall. Dorcas headed for the stairs and Tom, to the left and toward the dungeons. She looked back and waved at him. He smiled and waved. 

:::

7 October 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas helped Theresa to sit up and take a sip of water. 

“It’s exhausting, I know,” Dorcas said with a sympathetic hand on Theresa’s arm. “But we have just three memories to go.” 

Theresa looked at Dorcas with determination in her eyes. She nodded and laid back on the couch once more. Taking a sharply inhaled breath, she closed her eyes. 

Dorcas took the syringe, filled with the iridescent purple liquid, swabbing Theresa’s bicep with alcohol, and injected the memory elixir into her bloodstream. A bruise was already beginning to develop where Theresa had been injected three times previously.

Dorcas placed the empty syringe on the tray and, taking Theresa’s wrist, checked her pulse. Confirming on her wrist watch that Theresa’s heart rate was slowing, Dorcas began to prompt her. 

“Now, find the memory from the night Jim came home drunk. The night that he gave you the concussion.” 

Theresa nodded. “I was wearing a red jumper. William was playing in the yard.” 

“That’s the one,” Dorcas encouraged. 

“Now, imagine taking your right hand and moving a curtain aside.”

Theresa not only imagined this, she mimicked the motions. She was becoming more familiar with the procedure and was activating the elixir’s effects almost before Dorcas gave the instructions. 

This memory was always a painful one for Theresa. She had recounted it for Dorcas several times. Dorcas had also witnessed it in the Pensieve twice. 

She knew that Theresa had seen Jim, coming home, breath thick with drink. He was angry about something that was never distinct, never clear. Dorcas knew that if it hadn’t been articulated clearly to Theresa, then it couldn’t be clear in the memory. 

Jim had pushed her. Theresa was imploring Jim to be quiet, that William was in the back yard and would hear. He interrupted her pleas by bringing a vase full of flowers down on her head. 

Theresa’s eyes popped open a moment later. “Steven. It’s always Steven.”

Between each memory, as a new comprehension dawned on Theresa, she became both angered and horrified that her past and her relationships had been altered so completely. 

As Dorcas had suspected, Theresa’s relationship with Steven was not as new as Theresa thought. She had been seeing Steven secretly for nearly two years. 

Dorcas handed the fourth empty phial to Theresa. Closing her eyes tightly and concentrating, Theresa picked up the wand resting in her lap and placed it to her temple. 

:::

2 December 1939 Seventh Floor Corridor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas was out of breath. After wandering the sixth floor and a couple of shortcuts hidden behind tapestries, Dorcas and Tom found themselves in front of a large gargoyle. This was the entrance to Professor Dippet’s office. Dorcas felt a kind of brazen daring to be out of bounds so near the headmaster’s chambers. 

She and Tom had taken up a comical waltz, stifling laughter and humming a three-quarter-time tune softly. 

Now they lay in the middle of the left hand corridor staring up at a tapestry depicting a daft-looking wizard teaching ballet to trolls. 

They took turns inventing voices for the wizard and the trolls, creating an entire, absurd conversation for them. 

Heavy footfalls echoed at the other end of the darkened hall.

Dorcas and Tom stood and ran to the nearest hiding place, the statue of a witch with an open book in her hands. There was a small niche behind it. 

They sat huddled together for some time without saying a word to each other. They were abundantly cautious when someone was approaching. Both of them knew that their nighttime jaunts could disappear quickly if anyone were to suspect them of wandering the castle at night. 

No voices or footsteps echoed for a long time. 

Tom and Dorcas arranged themselves into more comfortable positions in the niche. They sat side by side with backs against the wall and feet propped on the witch’s dais. 

Dorcas thought of asking something that she had been curious about. 

“Tom?” 

He laughed softly next to her. 

Dorcas paused, looking at him in the faint moonlight coming from a window opposite them. 

“Why are you laughing?” 

“Because you always start out by saying my name when you’re about to ask me something that you’ve been holding onto for a while.” 

Dorcas looked down at her hands. She guessed he was right.

“What do you want to know?” 

Dorcas didn’t speak. 

“Go on, Birdie,” Tom coaxed, nudging her shoulder with his. 

“When do you sleep?” Dorcas tucked her hands self-consciously into her jumper’s sleeves. “I mean, you wander around every night. I only come out to meet you on the weekends.”

She felt Tom shrug beside her. “I’m conditioned to go on very little sleep, I suppose.” 

“Conditioned?” Dorcas prompted. 

Tom was silent for a moment. Dorcas thought he might not respond to her. 

“I live in an orphanage when I’m not here.” 

Dorcas knew this, but felt a fresh wave of pity any time the subject came up. 

“You have to watch out for the older and bigger kids in places like that. You learn not to sleep because that’s when you’re most vulnerable.”

Dorcas didn’t know how to respond to this. She imagined all sorts of horrible things that kids might do to one another without adults being aware. 

“But you have magic,” Dorcas began, writing a narrative in her own mind that made this unsettling news about Tom’s life more palatable to her. 

Tom nodded. “Yes, but I can’t use it until I’m of age.” 

“So what do you do?” 

Tom’s breathing was rhythmic, comforting next to Dorcas. She was surprised to find that she had become protective of her friend, fiercely so. She felt a similar feeling toward him as she felt for her Uncle Morty, who was more like an older brother to her than an uncle. 

“I sneak out.” 

“You sneak out?” Dorcas was fascinated by the idea. 

“Yes,” Tom continued. “I know London almost as well as I know this school.” 

Dorcas was impressed. She stifled a yawn behind her hand. She felt bad about the yawn for some reason, as if it was an admission that she’d lived a more privileged life than Tom had. 

“You can rest your head on my shoulder if you’re tired.” 

Dorcas did. Her breathing slowed. She thought about exploring London by night and fell asleep. 

:::

7 October 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Theresa was sitting with her arms wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth and crying. 

“I think that it would be best if we save the final memory for tomorrow,” Dorcas said. 

She was sitting on the couch beside her client, rubbing her back comfortingly. 

Theresa shook her head adamantly and leveled a defiant glare at Dorcas. 

“No,” she gasped between sobs. “I want to know it all. I want to know now.”

“It’s not a good idea,” Dorcas continued, speaking calmly. 

It was only natural that Theresa would become agitated by what she had seen. In a way, she was experiencing the trauma of losing her husband for the first time. Because her memories had been altered, she had never had to deal with the grief of someone she loved being taken from her. She had labored under the assumption that she had murdered him because he had attacked her repeatedly. 

Peeling back the layers, painstakingly, one by one for each memory that Steven had tampered with had revealed a truth that Dorcas had not anticipated. 

Steven, Theresa’s boyfriend, had proven to be skilled in placing Memory Charms. Most people were only capable of making someone forget that something had occurred. But a true talent with them could invent another reality entirely, as Steven had. 

He had taken opportunities over the past two years to create a new narrative in Theresa’s life; one in which he replaced her devoted and loving husband with a drunk and violent one. The injuries that Theresa sustained--she thought at Jim’s hands--were really inflicted by Steven. 

“Theresa,” Dorcas advised. “It is too important to get this right. The mind can take a lot of assault. But if we push too hard, you could lose any memory that is buried beneath the charm.” 

She took Theresa’s hand. Dorcas was patient, but firm.

“We can continue tomorrow, after you’ve had time to rest.” 

Theresa looked ready to argue. 

“How can I rest? How can I sleep? This is the first time that I’ve felt like I’ve been fully awake since…” She sobbed. “Since, Jim…” She tapered off, unable to maintain speech through her tears. 

“You’ll stay here tonight,” Dorcas said. “I’m going to give you something to help you sleep.” 

Theresa shook her head. She opened her mouth to protest. 

“Theresa. We can’t get the answers we need when you’re exhausted.”

Theresa seemed to see the wisdom in this and finally submitted to Dorcas’s ministrations. She took the small glass that Dorcas handed her. It contained about an ounce of a deep blue liquid. Sleeping Draught. 

Theresa’s ragged breaths began to even again. 

Dorcas, a steadying arm around Theresa’s shoulders, guided her to Ryann’s room. It was already prepared with clean sheets and a nightgown of Dorcas’s laid out. 

Theresa sat down heavily on the corner of the bed. 

Dorcas reached over to the nightstand and opened a children’s book that always sat there.  _ A Thousand and One Nights _ , was Dorcas’s favorite growing up. This book was a battered relic from her childhood. Dorcas had enchanted it one night when Ryann couldn’t sleep. Now, when it was opened, a light golden tree grew out of the place where the pages joined into the spine. Little goldfinches sprang up on the branches. Various tunes emanated softly from it. Currently, the dulcet melody of ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ could be heard. 

Dorcas pulled down the pink covers of the bed. Theresa had pulled off the cardigan and dress and was trying to pull on the nightgown. Her movements were getting sluggish. The Sleeping Draught was taking effect. 

She helped Theresa to finish dressing. When Theresa had settled into bed, Dorcas pulled the covers up to her chin, the way she had done countless times for Ryann. 

Theresa’s eyes closed and her breathing deepened almost at once. 

:::

Dorcas lost track of time. 

When she wanted to think things through, she would often come downstairs to the laboratory to get ahead of some of the more mundane tasks. 

Cal would not be home for another hour yet. He would be picking Wren up from Anneliese and Beau’s place on his way home from the hospital. And, based on the dosage of Sleeping Draught that she’d given Theresa, she would be out for the rest of the night. 

Turning to the Hi-Fi behind her, she found the Billie Holiday album that usually soothed her and set the needle carefully onto the waxed grooves. 

Cal had very clean habits in the laboratory. There was never a beaker out of place, never a messy workspace. Still, dust did collect here and there. 

She went to the peg on the wall next to the stairs and grabbed her apron. Tying the ties at her waist she set about to remove the fine layer of dust that accumulated over jars that contained various dried and infused ingredients. 

After she had ensured that every surface sparkled, she took up a clipboard and an inventory list and went over to the cupboard that held the stores of potions. Every one of the bottles gleaming from the shelves were proud accomplishments of hers and Cal’s. 

The Oculus Potion was a pet project of Cal’s from his days doing fieldwork in Iraq along the Tigris River. 

The Wideye Potion. Dorcas smiled. This one was meant as a joke, but turned out to be highly effective. She and Cal had thrown a bunch of stuff into a cauldron and applied the heat. It came in handy during all of Dorcas’s many late nights at Columbia. 

The Ex-Nebulae Elixir. This one had been a passion project. She had discovered during her formative years as a mental health professional that those who’d had memories that were tampered with had a greater risk of mind maladies. Wishing to help her patients peel back a false memory to reveal the true one, and to aid them in working through the damage caused, she’d embarked on the mission to develop this elixir with Cal. 

The Blood-Replenishing Potion was running low. With trials for this new potion underway weekly at St. Mungo’s, they would require a fresh stock. 

Tallying the potions in the cabinet, Dorcas turned next to the ingredients. 

The infusion of Star of Ishtar was low. Turning to the lab table behind her, she set a cauldron of water to boil and busied herself with finely chopping dried Star of Ishtar. This was a white, five-petaled flower with small, but sharp thorns. 

The work was monotonous and just what she needed to let her mind wander freely over today’s session with Theresa. 

“Wren’s asleep,” Cal said sometime later. 

Dorcas had not realized that the record was skipping and scratching with white noise. How long had it been signaling to be turned to the B side? 

“How was your day?” She chopped and asked. 

Cal came to stand next to her and kissed her cheek. 

He shrugged. “Murtlap bite, doxy sting, the usual.” He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “How was your day?” 

Dorcas unloaded as much as she could about the events of Theresa’s session, carefully navigating patient-client privilege. 

“Do you think she’s in danger?” Cal asked, taking up a knife and chopping Star of Ishtar alongside his wife. “Is that why she’s asleep in Ryann’s bed right now.” 

Dorcas rested her knife’s blade on the cutting board and looked at Cal. “I think so.” 

Cal nodded in understanding. “Then we must do what we can to help.”

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

23 December 1939 Strattondale, Poplar, London

Dorcas was glad to be home. She had loved her first term at Hogwarts, yes. But she’d missed her family and her piano. She sat at the instrument and picked out ‘Silent Night’ slowly at first, learning the keys. Morty lounged on the sofa, petting Bing, humming along to the tune. Dorcas quickly learned the basic melody on the keys and then started to pick out increasingly more elaborate versions. 

Riding back to London on the train, she was surrounded by her friends. Cherry, still pursuing Darren Barton with single-minded determination, sat way too close to him. He had pushed himself against the window as much as he could to allow some distance between him and his captor. But Dorcas thought she could see his prudish resolve slipping a bit. 

Anneliese sat across from this display, giggling with Darren’s twin sister, Darla. 

Beau Haywood and Cal Meadowes sat next to Cherry, heads bent over the Daily Prophet from that morning. It brought more news of the war. The Soviets had invaded Finland. And the Daily Prophet urged Wizarding kind to remain neutral, insisting that terms for peace would be coming soon. It was clear from their tone, Cal and Beau did not agree with this stance. 

Dorcas sat beside Anneliese. She buried her nose in a textbook, scratching Bing’s ears absently. She was conflicted. She loved the group of friends assembled in this compartment. Each one had been welcoming to her, and had accepted her into the group. She remembered the trepidation she’d felt when she stepped onto the Hogwarts Express just shy of four months ago wondering if she was in the right place; whether she would make friends. 

One friend was absent, though, and she felt a stab of conviction. Tom stayed at school during the Christmas holidays because he did not have a home to go to. He had explained that he preferred Hogwarts to the orphanage and stayed there at every opportunity. He confessed that if he would be allowed to, he would have stayed on even during the summer holiday. He said this last part with regret. 

The orphanage must be very awful indeed if a solitary existence inside of a castle (even one as wonderful as Hogwarts) won out. She’d remembered the time earlier in the month when he’d told her that he would sneak out and roam all of London rather than stay at the orphanage. Part of her wished she’d stayed behind with him. She felt a stab of disloyalty to him because she was eager to be at home with her mother and her uncle, pulling Christmas crackers and singing carols. 

She’d ventured into the halls on the night before the end of term, cradling a present that she’d made for Tom. If she could not stay to celebrate the holiday with her friend, she could at least give him a token of her affection. 

She found him on the steps of the spiral staircase leading up to the fourth floor corridor. 

“Happy Christmas,” Dorcas said, pulling a small glass vial from behind her back. It was corked and sealed with wax. The liquid inside was a transparent periwinkle color. “It’s an Invisibility Draught,” she explained. “So you can go somewhere new. Anywhere that you couldn’t go before. Because now you’ll be invisible.” She bounced on the balls of her feet as she said this. “I had to steal some of the ingredients from Professor Slughorn’s stores.” She hoped he would be impressed by her daring. 

He stared at her in surprise. 

“I’ve never received a gift before.”

Dorcas took one of his hands and pressed the bottle into it. “Oh. Well, it’s not much. But I thought you would like it.”

“I do,” Tom said quickly, looking at the gift, stunned. 

Dorcas watched Tom inspect the small potion bottle a little longer, trying to think of something to say that would break the silence. 

After a moment, Tom placed the bottle in his pocket and grabbed Dorcas’s hand. “I’ve got something to show you. It’s a gift of sorts as well.” 

He raced up the stairs with Dorcas in tow. Two more flights of stairs and a secret passageway later and Tom and Dorcas were face to face with the bizarre tapestry of the wizard and the trolls learning ballet. 

Dorcas was about to remind Tom that they’d been here a few weeks ago when he cut her off. 

“Wait here.”

She watched him pace the corridor three times and, to her amazement a large wooden door appeared. 

“Wow!” Dorcas was completely enchanted by the magical door; so much so that she forgot to be curious about what was behind it. 

She was about to ask Tom how he’d managed to find this most spectacular Hogwarts secret. She was stopped short by Tom tugging on her hand again, pulling her inside. 

The sight of the cavernous room, massive piers supporting a rib-vaulted space reminded her of a cathedral. But she’d never been inside a cathedral like this. There were heaps and piles of discarded things; narrow passageways between the hoarded items. 

The sight of the space and its multitude treasures took Dorcas’s breath away. 

“Do you like it?” Tom asked eagerly at her side. 

Dorcas nodded slowly, unable to find words to answer him. 

She let go of Tom’s hand and wandered through the stacks. A thought occurred to her and she turned to ask Tom. He’d vanished.

She turned back to the wonderful things piled high. There were books stacked in columns from the floor to well above her head. She saw a dressmaker’s dummy with a target painted on its front, knives sunk into its midsection. One of the knives marked a bullseye. There was an old violin propped next to a cupboard. Dorcas picked it up and plucked the strings, very out of tune. She tried the cupboard doors. Locked. 

Venturing further into the space, Dorcas stepped over a toppled statue, and turned toward a shelf with various dried herbs and dead specimens floating in green and orange liquid. 

“Come find me,” Dorcas heard Tom whisper and whipped around. His voice had sounded so close that she had the impression that he was just inches from her. The path that she had traversed was empty of anyone living. The statue still lay across it, like a bridge between the junk heaps. 

Dorcas stopped to listen. She strained for any sound that could tell her which direction Tom went. She turned right.

Something flitted past her, so close that it stirred her hair as it passed. She inhaled sharply, looking for the source of the movement. 

A noise like a stack of books falling sounded in the distance, she smirked and ran off after the noise. 

At a large birdcage, complete with dead canaries in the bottom, Dorcas made a left. She thought she heard footsteps. She quickened her pace. It was a maze of cast-off and long-forgotten possessions. As she went deeper and deeper in search of her friend, she tried to stifle the terrible feeling that she could get lost in here. That she could become one of the cast-off, long-forgotten things, like the dead canaries. 

From a long distance back the way she had come she heard faint whistling. 

At the hint that her friend had not abandoned her, worry evaporated and she turned and chased the sound. Stopping briefly at a suit of armor, checking to see that no one was behind it, she ran on. 

The whistling was getting louder. 

Dorcas slowed so that her footfalls would not be heard. The song was coming from behind a tall cabinet to her left. Billie Holiday’s ‘I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm’ was the tune. 

She crept around the cabinet. Tom was stretched out on some blankets and cushions, flipping through a book. It looked to be a very old and dusty memoir. 

“Found you,” Dorcas proclaimed, collapsing onto the cushions beside Tom. 

Tom glanced up from the book and fixed her with a smile. “Do you like it?”

Dorcas grinned widely and stared at an orrery suspended above them. “I do! Thanks for showing me, Tom.”

Tom inched closer to her and laid back, his head resting on the same pillow as hers. He closed the book and rested it on his chest. Raising his wand, Tom whispered, “ _ Lumos Dispellum”.  _ Light left the tip of his wand and settled into the brass sun in the center of the orrery. “ _ Locomotor _ ” and it began to rotate gently. It cast a beautiful dancing glow above them. 

“Happy Christmas, Birdie.”

Dorcas remembered the night in the room with all of the hidden treasures and it made her smile. She picked out the tune that Tom had whistled on the piano’s keys.

“Go back to ‘Deck the Halls’,” Morty interrupted her thoughts. “I liked that one better.”

Dorcas shook her head clear of the recent memory and obliged. 

Looking at the carriage clock on the mantle, she checked the time. Her mother would not be home from the hospital for at least three more hours. She wished the time would move faster. She had not seen her mother since she’d left for school. Dorcas had seen herself off of the train this afternoon and taken a cab home. Morty’s caretaker, Mrs. Spratt had served as welcoming party, Morty being asleep when she arrived. Even though she did not get the warm Christmas greeting she’d expected, she was not deterred. She bustled around, making a festive paper chain to string on the mantle, baked a batch of cinnamon biscuits, and set a pot of mulled wine to simmer. 

The Christmas spirit, at last filled the little space. 

She and Morty had whiled away the hours before Dorcas’ mother would return with playing Christmas tunes. 

Mary-Ellen often worked late shifts nursing at the hospital. Dorcas was used to this. She wanted to stay up to greet her mother, but wondered if she would be able to. For a moment she regretted the indulgence of sneaking out of bed to meet Tom the night before. 

“Better go and brush your teeth, Morty. It’s almost bedtime.” Dorcas turned to her uncle who yawned. Dorcas couldn’t help but answer this with a yawn of her own. 

Morty set Bing on the couch next to him and disappeared into his bedroom. Emerging moments later in plaid pajamas, Dorcas’s uncle crossed the sitting room to the piano and gave Dorcas a hug. 

“I’ve missed you, D.”

Dorcas smiled. “I’ve missed you too, Morty.” He was often sidetracked. She gently nudged him toward the washroom. “Brush your teeth. Then bedtime.”

The washroom door closed. 

Dorcas crossed to the kitchen and cleared away the dinner dishes from the table. Drying off and putting the last plate in the cupboard, Dorcas was startled by a loud thud. 

Morty. 

Dorcas dropped the dish towel that she was holding and raced to the hall. She pushed the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Thinking that it might have been locked, she took her wand from her pocket and aimed it at the doorknob. “ _ Alohomora _ ”. 

The door did not budge. Dorcas put her weight against it and pushed as hard as she could. There was something blocking it. 

She managed to push the door open a crack and saw her uncle lying on the floor. His prone form was the impediment. Dorcas could see a lot of blood. 

She finally managed to push hard enough to get into the small space. Crouching beside Morty, she lifted his head slightly, to keep him from banging it on the ground as his body shook with seizures. But this was futile. He had a large gash across the back of his head. He must have hit the bathtub on his way down. The convulsions subsided and his movements slowed. He didn’t open his eyes. 

Dorcas tried to remember a spell to stop the bleeding. Her mind was blank. Of all of the books she’d spent months pouring over in the library, nothing about healing wounds came to her. 

“Morty?” Dorcas shook her uncle gently. 

Her wand lay on the floor next to her, completely useless. 

Dorcas couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He wouldn’t respond to her. 

She placed her uncle’s head gently to the ground and sprang to her feet. Get help, she thought. But she was frozen in panic. She didn’t know what to do. Where could she go to find assistance? 

She had neighbors. She clung to this thought. She could ask someone to call for the ambulance service. She raced across the sitting room and flung open the door to the hallway. 

Her upstairs neighbor was walking slowly down the stairs. Betty Balfour was dressed in a red sequined evening dress with a black overcoat. Dorcas knew that she worked at a club a few blocks from here. She played the piano and sang. She must have been on her way to work. 

“Miss Balfour,” Dorcas called, her voice strained with worry. “Please call for an ambulance. The phone booth on the corner.” 

It took a moment for the request to register with Betty. 

“Dorcas, is everything alright?”

“No,” Dorcas said, tears filling her eyes. “Please hurry.”

:::

Two men wheeled her uncle through the double doors and into the hospital. He lay unmoving on the gurney, though his head was bandaged, blood was still pooling beneath him. 

Dorcas hopped out of the ambulance a moment later, but had not seen where her uncle and the two men had gone. She clutched her cardigan with bloodstained hands, dazed. She faintly registered the flakes of snow settling in her eyelashes. Looking side to side, she wondered where to go or who to talk to. 

The ambulance drove off. 

She shuffled up onto the sidewalk and stood looking at the busy street. How could she contact her mum and let her know what had happened? She would come home to empty rooms and blood all over the floor. 

Dorcas started to shake. She wrapped her arms around her. 

How could she have let it happen? She hadn’t seen the warning signs that signaled one of his episodes. Or had they been present, and she just hadn’t noticed them? She was selfishly thinking about school and her new friends. She hadn’t paid the smallest bit of attention to her own family, right in front of her. 

And there was so much blood. What if--

“Jesus! Clerey, is that you?” A shocked but familiar voice stopped Dorcas from thinking the worst. 

Dorcas spun around to face the speaker. 

Cal Meadowes was on the steps of the hospital, flipping up the collar of his overcoat against the cold and the snow. 

His eyes were wide with panic. Rushing over to where she stood, he took his coat off immediately and wrapped her up in it. 

“Are you okay? Where are you hurt?” His eyes surveyed the front of her. 

She supposed she did look pretty frightening. She had blood down the front of her dress and the knees of her socks were also drenched. 

She shook her head, trying to explain the state of her appearance, but the words wouldn’t come. 

“My uncle,” she finally managed. 

Cal cast about for a memory of a conversation. “Morty?” 

Dorcas nodded. “He fell,” was all she managed. 

Cal tucked her under one arm and turned her in the direction of the steps that he’d just descended. 

“Let’s go see where they’ve taken him.” His voice began to calm. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” 

Dorcas blinked the snow from her lashes and nodded. 

“Caleb?” A woman’s voice made Dorcas look up. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s my friend from school. Her uncle’s just been brought in.”

“Oh, dear. How awful,” the woman said, taking in Dorcas’s bloody appearance. She turned and opened the door that she’d just exited with a camel colored gloved hand, sabel coat swinging in her wake. 

The woman held the door open for Dorcas and Cal and motioned toward a couple of benches against the wall. 

“What is your uncle’s name, dearest?” the woman asked her as she settled next to Cal on a bench. 

She hadn’t noticed how cold it was outside until she’d come into the warm waiting room. Now her hands had that stinging feeling you get when you make snowballs without any gloves on. She flexed her fingers and focused on her burning fingertips. 

“Mortimer Rackharrow,” she said automatically. The woman nodded and walked purposefully to the waiting room attendant behind a booth. 

Cal took her hands in both of his. They were blessedly warm. 

Dorcas looked around the room. There was a small, elderly woman flipping through a magazine. Other than her, the waiting room was empty. 

“Mother will find out where your uncle has been taken. She knows the hospital very well,” Cal reassured her. 

Dorcas looked at the woman, fur coat, fashionable hat and shoes, like a mannequin that just walked right out of a department store display window. She turned away from the nurse that she’d been speaking to and came to stand in front of the pair. 

“Your uncle will be going into surgery shortly, my dear,” Cal’s mother said, not unsympathetically. “It sounds serious, but I was told his injuries are not life threatening.”

Dorcas’s shoulders deflated slightly in relief. 

“That’s good to hear,” Cal said, speaking what Dorcas felt. 

“I’m afraid it will be some time before anyone will be allowed to see him,” she continued. “Caleb and I were just leaving. We can take you home, if you like.” 

Dorcas shook her head. She did not know how long it would take her mother to find out where she and Morty had gone. She wanted to make sure someone was here in case something happened. In case, things turned out to be more serious. 

“No thank you, ma’am,” Dorcas said faintly. “I’ll wait here.” 

“I will wait with Dorcas, mother,” Cal said, squeezing her hands reassuringly in his own. 

His mother took note of the gesture and the corners of her mouth turned up slightly. 

“Your brother will be released tomorrow morning. I must get a room arranged for him,” She said to Cal, standing and adjusting her handbag. “I will send Parker back for you in two hours.”

Cal nodded. 

“Dorcas, sweetheart,” Cal’s mother said, turning to her. “Your uncle is in my prayers. I hope he is well and home again very soon.” 

“Thank you,” Dorcas said, tears in her eyes. 

Cal placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled his coat around her so that she was all tucked inside. 

Cal’s mother said something to the nurse at the booth again before she left. 

“Your brother is here?” Dorcas asked. 

“Yes,” Cal said. “He was injured in a training exercise in Dover. Broken arm and a head injury. He should be recovering in an army hospital near his base. But father pulled some strings.” He laughed to himself. “What’s the point of being on the board of a hospital and a peer of the realm if you can’t get your way with these things?” 

Dorcas felt him shrug. “But mother is glad she will have him home for Christmas at any rate.” 

Dorcas settled into the warm coat and the arm around her. 

“What happened to your uncle?” 

She could feel him looking at her. 

“He was in the washroom. He fell and hit his head, I think on the bathtub. There was a lot of blood.” Her voice hitched. 

Cal’s arm tightened around her. “You heard mother, they told her that he will be okay.”

Dorcas nodded, comforted somewhat. 

“He falls a lot. He has seizures. He’s always been that way,” she explained. 

Cal was silent, giving her the space to think or to talk. 

“I should have been paying attention,” she said, a small sob in her voice. “I usually can tell when they’re coming on. He gets really tired and his speech slurs.” 

“Hey,” Cal said, rubbing her arm. “Come on, you couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault.” 

Wiping tears from her eyes, she nodded. She knew he was right, but she was still angry with herself. 

They sat in silence for a long time. Dorcas sat up a little straighter when a nurse came into the room. But every time this happened, it was only to check a list with the waiting room attendant. 

Dorcas had begun to doze on Cal’s shoulder when her mother rushed into the waiting room and spoke to the same nurse that Cal’s mum had talked to. 

The sound of her mother’s voice startled her awake. 

“Mum,” Dorcas called, standing. Cal’s coat slipped from her shoulders as she stood. 

Mary-Ellen, still clad in her garish lime green St. Mungo’s robes turned at the sound of her daughter’s voice. 

“Dorcas,” she said, crossing the space in a few strides. She wrapped Dorcas in a tight embrace and then held her at arms length to survey her. “Are you hurt?” 

Dorcas shook her head, looking at her hands and her dress, trying to wipe the blood from both. “It’s Morty’s.” 

“What happened?”

Mary-Ellen sat on the other side of her daughter and held her hand. 

“I asked Morty to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. He was in the washroom when he fell and hit his head.” Dorcas tried to be stoic in her explanation, but began to cry again. “I’m sorry, mum.”

Mary-Ellen shook off the apology and hugged Dorcas to her. “Nothing to be sorry for. I was worried this would happen. Where was Mrs. Spratt?” 

Dorcas looked down at her hands. “I let her leave around eight. I thought he would be safe with just me.” 

Her mother stroked her hair. “He  _ is _ safe with you. He falls. It happens all the time. You did the right thing by getting him to the hospital. I couldn’t have done any better.” 

“You would have done magic. I couldn’t remember how to do anything.” 

“Yes, but I’m trained in magical healing. That’s taken me years.” Mary-Ellen seemed to notice Cal sitting quietly next to them at just that moment. 

“Who is this?” Mary-Ellen smiled politely at Cal. 

Dorcas had forgotten him. “Oh, this is my friend Cal.” Dorcas seemed to have also forgotten manners. “Caleb Meadowes, a friend from school.” 

Dorcas turned to Cal. “My mother, Mary-Ellen Clerey.” 

Cal reached across Dorcas. “Healer Clerey,” he said offering his hand. 

Mary-Ellen shook hands and corrected, “Matron Clerey, please. I’m a nurse.” 

Mary-Ellen remembered at that moment that she was still wearing her odd Wizarding hospital uniform and took it off quickly. Underneath the lime green robes, she had on a gray wool skirt and jumper. 

“Ms. Clerey,” a nurse called from behind the waiting room booth. 

“Excuse me,” Mary-Ellen said and handed Dorcas her balled up robe. She stood and sprinted to the booth and had a brief but hushed conversation with the nurse. 

Returning a moment later, Mary-Ellen sat down again. “Your uncle is out of surgery. He’s in a recovery ward. No one will be allowed to see him,” she continued, heading off the question that Dorcas was about to ask. “She’ll have an update for me in an hour.” 

Mary-Ellen sat back and rubbed her eyes. 

“You should go home, Dorcas. There’s nothing you can do for your uncle.” 

Dorcas opened her mouth to protest. 

Her mother looked at her with a direct stare that brooked no argument. “You’ve had a long journey and a trying evening. Go home. I will send word if he wakes up.” 

“I’ll take you home, Clerey,” Cal said, standing. He held a hand out for her. 

Dorcas reluctantly took it. 

“Thank you, Caleb.” Mary-Ellen was exhausted-looking. “Dorcas was lucky to have had a friend with her tonight. I’m grateful.” 

Dorcas tried to think of an argument that would convince her mother to go home in her place. But she knew it would never work. 

“I am happy to be of service,” Cal said amiably. 

He wrapped Dorcas back up in his coat and turned her toward the glass doors, frosted with a layer of snow. 

Dorcas spared a final glance back at her mother, whose head was resting against the wall. Her mouth seemed to be moving in a silent prayer. 

The cold was bracing. Cal, with an arm around her shoulders, guided Dorcas to a waiting car. It was dark and shiny. He opened the door for Dorcas and she ducked inside. 

She hadn’t ridden in many cars, but could immediately tell that this one was very expensive. 

Cal slipped into the back seat beside Dorcas and placed an arm around her shoulders again. She had become accustomed to this gesture quickly, she’d noted with curiosity. 

“Parker,” Cal said, addressing the driver. The driver looked into the rearview mirror. 

“Where do you live?” Cal asked Dorcas. 

“Number 19 Strattondale,” Dorcas replied. 

Parker nodded. “Very good, Miss.” 

The car pulled onto the street. Cal and Dorcas sat in silence for a moment. 

“Clerey,” Cal said, squeezing her shoulders. “What you said back there to your mum, about not being able to think of a spell that would help your uncle.” 

“Yeah?” 

“She’s right, you know. We’re new to magic. We can’t perform complicated healing spells. Don’t beat yourself up about that.” 

Dorcas nodded and considered this. Cal had meant to comfort her. She knew that he and her mother were right, of course. She could have done more harm to her uncle than good by using magic. She knew that she’d probably done the best thing, taking him to a Muggle hospital. But she was frustrated. She wanted to be better at helping, at healing. She was frustrated by how much she still didn’t know. 

They settled into a comfortable silence. 

The car pulled up in front of her building shortly after this. Cal opened the door and Dorcas followed him out of the car.

“Thank you, Parker,” Dorcas turned and said to the driver. 

“My pleasure, Miss,” Parker said, turning and smiling at her. 

Dorcas led the way to her family’s second floor rooms. There was a note on the door. 

_ Mary-Ellen,  _

_ Your brother took a fall and he and Dorcas went to Saint Josephs.  _

_ I hope all will be well soon! _

_ -Betty _

So that is how her mother knew where she was. She would have to remember to thank her neighbor for all of her help. 

Tomorrow. 

Dorcas felt very tired. 

Cal opened the door for her. 

Dorcas hung up her mother’s robe that she was still clutching on the coat rack by the door. She Slipped off Cal’s coat and folded it. Handing it to him she whispered, “Thank you.” 

He smiled at her in reply and closed the door behind them. He found the light switch and illuminated the sitting room and kitchen. 

Dorcas looked down at her stained dress and socks. 

“Here,” Cal said, dropping his coat over a chair. He went to the sink and took the dish towel Dorcas had discarded hours ago and ran it under the faucet. 

Pulling a chair out for her he said, “Sit.” 

Dorcas complied. Taking her hands, Cal wiped the dried and cracked blood off of them. The warm towel felt soothing. Dorcas closed her eyes. 

“You must be very tired,” Cal observed, rinsing the towel in the sink. 

Dorcas nodded and stood. Going to her bedroom, she closed the door and slipped out of her shoes, bloody knee socks, cardigan, and dress. She slipped a flannel nightgown over her head and opened the door. She walked to the washroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. 

She startled. Cal was on his hands and knees with a towel, mopping up the blood that had pooled on the floor where her uncle had fallen. He was just finishing the job and stood to face her. 

Brushing hair off of his forehead, he said, “That ought to do it.” He smiled at her sympathetically. 

She didn’t know why this small act touched her so acutely, or why his smile made her tear up again. She was just so grateful to him for the unflinching support he’d given her. 

Dorcas flung herself into his arms, crying and said, “Thank you for being there to help me.” She felt stupid being so emotional. 

He hugged her back, and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “I always will, Clerey.” 

The statement was so simple and so earnest. But she could feel in his voice and in the arms that he’d wrapped around her how much he meant it. 

She pulled away from him self-consciously a moment later, blushing and wiping away tears. 

Cal seemed to have become embarrassed as well. They couldn’t meet the other’s eyes. 

“I’ll let you wash up,” Cal said, laying the towel over the bathtub and exiting the washroom. 

Dorcas brushed her teeth and washed her face. She unbraided her hair and ran a comb through the tangles. 

Wondering if Cal had left, or if she should see him out, she went into the sitting room. He was sitting on the sofa asleep with his chin resting on his chest. Dorcas padded softly in bare feet to the sofa and pulled a blanket off of the arm. She placed it over Cal. 

Suddenly, Dorcas remembered Parker in the car downstairs. She wondered if she should say something to him. Tell him to come back for Cal in the morning. The car wasn't there. 

She quietly crossed the sitting room and turned out the lights. She was bone weary. She closed the door to her bedroom and collapsed against her pillow. 

:::

Dorcas expected to wake up to an empty flat. Instead she woke to the smell of bacon. Her stomach rumbled. 

She wondered for a moment if her mother had returned home in the night and was now making breakfast. 

Dorcas threw back the covers, getting up quickly. She would insist on making breakfast so that her mother could have a lie down. 

But when Dorcas entered the kitchen, it was Cal making breakfast. He had her mother’s apron tied around his waist. The scene was extremely domesticated. Dorcas was impressed. 

“Good morning,” Dorcas said, announcing her presence. She tucked her hair behind her ears, trying to run her fingers through it. Suddenly, she was self-conscious of her appearance, which she imagined was pretty awful. 

“Happy Christmas Eve,” Cal said. He glanced at her and then returned to the bacon crisping in the pan. Then his eyes darted furtively back toward her. 

She noticed the double-take and became more aware of her potentially frightening state. 

Dorcas sat at the table, looking at the spread. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. She reached for a glass of orange juice sitting beside her plate. 

“Thank you for staying last night. You didn’t have to,” Dorcas said to Cal’s back. “I’m used to being on my own.”

Cal shrugged and placed the last few strips of bacon on a plate in the middle of the table. He flicked the burner off on the stove and set the pan in the sink. 

“I wanted to.” Cal sat across from her. “I didn’t like the thought of you being alone after everything.”

Dorcas took some toast and eggs, reaching her plate out so that Cal could add bacon to it. 

They tucked in. Cal was probably as hungry as she felt. 

“Did your driver go home without you last night?” Dorcas asked after swallowing a bite of eggs. 

“I asked him to.”

Dorcas nodded and continued to eat. Then she realized something. 

“Cal, your mother said that your brother was being released this morning,” she said, nearly spilling juice down her front. “You’re going to miss his homecoming on account of me.” 

“No,” Cal said, buttering toast. “You and I can head back to the hospital when you’re ready. I won’t miss anything.” 

Dorcas nodded. She wasn’t convinced. It was the kind of selfless thing Cal would do, looking after her when his own family needed him. But, she was anxious to get back to the hospital to check on Morty and her mother. She ate faster. 

When she was finished, Dorcas jumped up to clear the plates. Cal seemed to be taking his time. 

“I’ll clear up,” he said, taking a sip of juice. “You go and get dressed.” 

She nodded and disappeared into her bedroom. 

She selected a brown plaid wool skirt and a burgundy blouse. Throwing a warm cardigan over the outfit, slipping on socks and shoes, she rushed to the washroom to detangle her hair and plait it into braids. She brushed her teeth and flew back out into the kitchen. 

“I’m ready,” Dorcas said, rushing to the coat rack for her heavy coat. She grabbed her mother’s as well, noticing that she didn’t have one with her last night. 

Cal was drying the last of the dishes. He placed them in the cabinet and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. 

“Let’s go,” he said. 

He held the door for her and followed her down the stairs and out into a snow covered street. 

Parker was waiting faithfully with the car again. 

Cal and Dorcas sat in companionable silence again. Dorcas noticed that the silence was not awkward. Had they grown comfortable in one another’s company so fast? 

When they arrived at the hospital entrance, Dorcas noticed her mother and Cal’s mother in conversation with one another, standing close to the nurses’ station. 

“Mum,” Dorcas crossed the lobby and hugged her mother. “How’s uncle Morty?” 

Mary-Ellen kissed her daughter’s forehead. “He’s awake, talking. Would you like to go and see him?” 

Dorcas nodded eagerly. 

“It was nice to meet you, Elaine,” Mary-Ellen said, taking Dorcas’s hand. “And you, Caleb. You have been so nice to Dorcas.” 

Elaine and Cal both smiled at Mary-Ellen. “Lovely to meet you,” Elaine said. 

“Happy Christmas,” Dorcas replied and, turning, followed her mother through a pair of glass doors and onto the ward. 

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

11 October 1957 Diagon Alley, London

Dorcas sat in the chair with her back straight and shoulders squared, assuming the professional air she adopted when on the witness stand. Her psychiatry career had been dotted with expert witness testimony for one client or another. 

She sat in the law offices of Counselor Gideon Prewett. 

Despite her reassurances to Gideon that she was a veteran at testifying in front of all manner of courts and judges, he’d insisted on running through possible questions that she would have to answer in tomorrow’s hearing. 

“How did you first come to understand that Mrs. Allen’s memories had been tampered with?” Gideon had been firing questions at her for about twenty minutes. 

“Theresa Allen was first referred to me in order to assess her mental stability. She had been accused of killing her husband with wandless magic and her son was taken away from her. She was pronounced an unfit parent.” 

Gideon nodded, assuming the role of the Child Advocate Counsel. 

“And you deem her a fit parent?” 

Dorcas shook her head slowly. “It’s not my place to deem her fit or unfit. That is for the courts to decide,” she responded cooly. “I merely walked her through the relevant memories associated with the accident--”

“Say incident, not accident,” Gideon corrected. “Accident is a value judgement. It shows you are sympathetic to Theresa.” 

Dorcas nodded and continued. “I walked her through the relevant memories of the  _ incident _ and talked with her about her frame of mind when she performed the spell that killed her husband.”

“Passive language, Dorcas.” Gideon corrected again. “When the spell that killed her husband was performed.” 

Dorcas nodded again. She didn’t really believe word choice was going to matter too much in this instance. It was not a high profile case. Sadly, tales of domestic violence were too common to rate front page news. Also, the Wizengamot would already have seen the memories Dorcas had furnished by the time she was questioned. They would have seen Theresa’s altered memory and the true accounting of what had happened. 

She was about to continue when the office’s frosted glass door opened. Dorcas swiveled in her seat and looked at the newcomer. 

He was tall and broad shouldered. He had the same strawberry blond hair as Gideon, but close cropped with a precise parting on the side. The resemblance between the two men was obvious. 

“I got your message a little late,” the man said, striding into the room and closing the door behind him. “I was at a crime scene in Cornwall. What is it?” 

Gideon pulled another chair up to his desk from a corner of the room. 

“Fabian,” Gideon said by way of introduction. “This is Dr. Dorcas Clerey-Meadowes.”

The intruder seemed to just register her presence in that moment. He turned in her direction and nodded. 

“Dorcas, my brother, Auror Fabian Prewett.” 

Gideon motioned to the chair next to Dorcas.

Fabian took the offered seat and extended a hand to Dorcas. “Dr. Meadowes.” 

“Auror Prewett,” Dorcas returned the handshake. 

“Fabian,” Gideon began immediately. “Dorcas and I have been collaborating on a murder case. The events appeared to be a cut-and-dry domestic in which the battered wife killed the husband in self-defense.” 

Fabian nodded, listening carefully. 

“Dr. Meadowes is a psychiatrist who specializes in memory modification charms.” Gideon gestured to Dorcas, and Fabian nodded again. 

“My client’s memory has been modified in order to cover the true murderer’s tracks,” Gideon continued, pushing a wooden stand with twelve memories carefully labeled in Dorcas’s clinical script across his desk toward his brother. 

Dorcas took over the narrative from here. “Those phials are copies of Mrs. Allen’s memories. They are numbered. They also indicate true versus modified memories. I discovered last week that Jim Allen’s real murderer is Theresa’s new boyfriend. He has disappeared since this discovery and Theresa is terrified to go home or to work in case he shows up.” 

Fabian finally spoke. “I’ll see if I can get a lead on him.” 

“The Wizengamot should be issuing an arrest order for him tomorrow,” Gideon said, his tone making it very clear that he did not trust the courts to make Theresa’s safety or the apprehension of the boyfriend a priority. “But I would like someone capable on the case as well.” 

Fabian took a small black notebook from the breast pocket of his coat. “What’s the name?”

“Muybridge,” Gideon answered. “Steven Muybridge.” 

“Mrs. Allen’s address and workplace?”

Gideon supplied the Surrey address and the Leaky Cauldron as Theresa’s workplace. Fabian wrote these details down. 

Dorcas supplied the few details about Steven that Theresa had given her. She had been alarmed at how little Theresa knew about him and wondered what other magical means Steven may have used to insert himself so completely into Theresa’s life with so little back story. 

Returning his notebook to his pocket, Fabian Prewett stood. He carefully lifted the case of memory phials. 

He looked at his brother and said, “I’ll be in touch.” He strode to the door. 

“The DMLE will be officially looped in about Muybridge tomorrow or the next day at the latest.” Gideon pointed to the memories in his brother’s hand. “Those copies don’t exist.”

“Strictly off the books, got it,” Fabian said succinctly. “Dr. Meadowes,” he added, nodding a goodbye to her.

“Auror Prewett, thank you.” Dorcas reached for her bag and slipped her driving gloves back on. 

Fabian left and Gideon returned to the notes that he was making for the hearing tomorrow. He shuffled some files and rested a hand on the file that had been under Theresa’s. He seemed to pause, caught in some internal debate. 

“Theresa and I will see you at 8:30 tomorrow morning at the courts,” Dorcas said, standing a moment later. 

Gideon nodded and tapped his fountain pen absently on the legal pad in front of him. He didn’t seem to hear what Dorcas had just said. 

“Gideon,” Dorcas said, moving closer to his desk. “What is it?”

“This one’s out of left field, Dr. Meadowes,” Gideon said, coming out of his reverie. 

“Okay. Try me.” 

“Do you think the memory of a house-elf can be Obliviated?” 

Dorcas stood with her handbag in the crook of one arm. She seemed to consider this for a few seconds. 

“I work with human patients, but I’m sure the physiology can’t be too different,” she mused. 

Gideon nodded, considering something. 

“Are you asking about another case?” Dorcas’s interest was piqued. 

“Yes,” Gideon said. “A murder case.”

Dorcas blinked at Gideon. “Someone’s murdered a house-elf?” 

“No,” Gideon clarified. “The house-elf is the accused murderer.”

“Huh,” Dorcas muttered. She was intrigued now. “Can’t have many like that come across your desk.”

“Nope.”

Dorcas turned toward the door, grabbing for the handle. “Let me know if you think I’ll be able to help.”

“I will.” 

Gideon returned to his files. Dorcas returned to the bustling pavement of Diagon Alley. She checked her wristwatch. She  needed to get across town to pick up Wren from a playdate at Anneliese and Beau’s house. There was no time for Muggle conventions like taxis. 

She Apparated in the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron. 

:::

31 December 1939 Strattondale, Poplar, London

Dorcas sat picking out a tune carefully, concentrating on the music in front of her. She was glad to have a mentally stimulating distraction from the guilt she felt over her uncle’s accident. 

An owl had arrived nearly a week ago with a lovely Christmas card addressed to her mother and a thin package addressed to Dorcas. Opening the package, Dorcas found a piece of sheet music with her grandmother’s signature in the top left hand corner. It was yellowing and obviously old. 

‘Fantasia in C Minor', a short note accompanying the music explained, was Liesel Rackharrow’s favorite piece to play. 

Picking out the tune clumsily on the piano, Dorcas could tell that her mum remembered the piece played by her own mother often. 

The note, the music, the Christmas card were all sent by her Uncle Lysander. She found this to be a kind gesture, like giving her the piano. Her mother was less convinced of her brother’s altruism. 

Still, Mary-Ellen would not begrudge her daughter a Christmas gift from her uncle. Nor, would it seem, did she begrudge herself or Morty the opportunity to listen to a favorite tune of their mother’s. Though, Dorcas thought regretfully, Morty wouldn’t remember his mother’s playing. She had died when he was born. 

Dorcas looked to her mother, sitting on the couch, Morty’s bandaged head in her lap. Her uncle laid quietly with his sister, one hand clutching a green paper crane as he napped. Mary-Ellen was as good as a mother to Morty, Dorcas supposed. He had lived with them as long as she could remember. Growing up, it was always just the three of them. Morty was like an older brother; and in some ways, like a younger brother to her as well. 

She mused about her mother and the mysterious rift between her and Morty and the rest of the Rackharrow clan. 

Curiosity got the better of her. 

“Mum?” Dorcas asked quietly, tentatively. She stopped playing.

“Hmm?” Mary-Ellen said, her gaze had been far away until Dorcas spoke. 

Dorcas took a breath and then forged ahead. “Why does Morty live with us and not Uncle Lysander? And why do you hate Uncle Lysander? And why can’t Morty do magic like the rest of us?” It all came out in a rush. 

Dorcas had never pressed her mother with these questions before. She only knew what she had been able to cobble together from the bits of memory that she’d picked up in her mother’s mind. 

Mary-Ellen looked down at Morty to make sure that he was not awake. 

“Morty was due to attend Hogwarts the same year that I was due to start my last year there,” she began. 

Dorcas turned away from the keys and focused on her mother. She felt anticipation. Her mother did not share information about her past freely. But, to be fair, Dorcas did not often ask. 

“But Morty did not receive a letter,” Mary-Ellen continued. “This seemed to confirm to my father what he’d always feared: his youngest child was not magical.”

Dorcas nodded in understanding. “He’s a Squib? That’s what magical people call non-magical offspring of witches and wizards.” 

Mary-Ellen nodded patiently. “That’s right. But Morty was in every other respect just a normal, healthy child.” 

Dorcas was confused by this statement. She had always assumed that her uncle’s inability to perform magic was linked to the fits of seizures that he regularly suffered. 

“Sometimes,” Mary-Ellen explained. “Children will exhibit signs of magical ability long before they ever receive their first wand or any sort of formal instruction. Sometimes they don’t. You didn’t show any outward signs of magic before you received your letter.” 

Dorcas nodded, accepting this logic. She didn’t perform any magic before attending Hogwarts, it’s true. However, she did begin to hear the thoughts of others about three years ago.

“Your grandfather was the sort of wizard that subscribed to some very outdated ideas about blood and magic. To this sort of wizard, blood purity is paramount. They believe that only wizards and witches who have pureblood parents should be able to attend magical schools. They believe that Muggle-borns should not be educated, that they have no birthright to perform magic. They would see a non-magical child as a stain on the family; an impurity of the bloodline.” 

Dorcas thought of many students at school who could be described as sharing some of these tenets. 

“I believe your grandfather thought that Morty was not his son. But he was unfailingly loyal to your grandmother. So I don’t believe he would ever have voiced his beliefs out loud. He would never betray her memory in that way. But he could never love Morty as a true child of his.”

Mary-Ellen stroked her brother’s hair gently. Dorcas imagined that Mary-Ellen had been filling in the role of mother for Morty all of his life. 

“In those days,” she continued with a harder edge to her voice. “Pureblood families paid a lot of money to have non-magical children hidden away. I didn’t find out that my father had sent Morty away until I had completed my schooling at Hogwarts. Places like Wingate Institution do not exist to help people. They exist to make problems go away for people who are willing to pay.” 

“Did they hurt him?” Dorcas asked in a whisper. She believed she knew the answer. She had seen the place that her mother was describing in a memory that she had accidentally projected to Dorcas years ago. 

Mary-Ellen nodded sadly. “They used horrible curses on the children they were supposed to be helping. When a child didn’t do what they were told, they would force them to comply with magic. They would punish them with magic. Torture them.” 

Dorcas looked at her uncle, asleep on the couch. He was a very gentle person. Dorcas had always felt fiercely protective of him. She’d bloodied the nose of a neighbor boy who had mocked Morty once. 

“Using magic of that sort repeatedly causes permanent damage to the brain. Forcing the brain to carry out tasks, forcing it to feel pain that isn’t really there,” Mary-Ellen trailed off, casting about for an analogy. “It’s like taking a record and scratching grooves into it. The record is permanently damaged by the repeated gouging. It will never play the melody that it was designed to play again.”

Dorcas understood her uncle more completely now than she ever had. “That’s why he has seizures.” 

“Yes,” Mary-Ellen confirmed. “His nervous system is permanently impaired. He has reasoning and processing difficulties.” Mary-Ellen trailed off once more. 

She looked at Dorcas. “I wish you had known him before he was dumped in that place. He was brilliant, curious, musical.” Mary-Ellen paused and wiped a tear from her cheek. “He was very much like you.” 

Dorcas felt sad about this and at the same time furious at her late grandfather. How could he send his own son off to be tortured? Did her Uncle Lysander know about it? 

“That’s why you hate your brother,” Dorcas said. “Uncle Lysander,” she clarified. 

Mary-Ellen was stroking Morty’s hair around his bandages. She looked up at Dorcas. 

“I don’t hate my brother,” she answered definitively. “It’s true that he did very little to get Morty out of that place. He refused to believe that it was as bad as I described.”

“You’re always so angry when he comes by,” Dorcas argued. 

“I find it hard to forget the past. I find it hard to forgive him for not stepping in. He was always so eager to please father. But he tries to make amends,” Mary-Ellen conceded. “He pays for Morty’s caretaker to look after him when I’m at work. He pays for your tuition.” She shook her head. “But money doesn’t cover for his part in destroying his brother’s future.” 

Mary-Ellen appeared as if she wanted to say more but there was a knock at the door at that moment. She looked to Dorcas who hopped lightly from the piano bench and opened the door. Morty stirred and opened his eyes at the sound. 

Dorcas saw her upstairs neighbor, Betty Balfour standing in the hall with a fruitcake. She looked quite different now than she had when Dorcas caught her on the stairs a week ago and pleaded with her to call for help. Today she wore wide legged denim trousers and a burgundy jumper. Her blond hair was tied in a scarf and she wore very little makeup. Dorcas noted that she looked just as beautiful now as she had dolled up for the club. 

“Hello,” Dorcas said, smiling. 

Mary-Ellen appeared behind Dorcas. “Ms. Balfour. How nice of you to visit.” 

Betty had a sunny smile that crinkled her cornflower blue eyes. “Merry Christmas, a little late, I fear. I didn’t want to call on you too soon. I know you’ve all had a trying time.” 

Her American accent was charming to Dorcas. 

“Please come in,” Mary-Ellen said, gesturing to the chair beside the piano. 

“I baked something for you all,” Betty said, holding out the white plate with the fruitcake. “Oh! What a beautiful instrument!” 

Mary-Ellen took the plate from Betty, who walked directly to the piano, lovingly stroking the keys. Dorcas liked Betty all the more for fawning over her piano. 

Betty turned away from it and noticed Morty sitting on the couch, quietly folding and refolding the green crane. 

“And how are you feeling, honey?” Betty asked Morty with a familiarity that confused Dorcas. 

“Fine,” Morty answered, one hand trailed up to his bandage and he began to scratch. Dorcas sat close beside her uncle and took his hand away from the bandage, holding onto it. 

Betty must have noticed the confusion on Dorcas’s face. 

“Morty and I like to wait for the postman together,” she explained. “We’re old friends. I was sorry to hear of your accident. I’ve been worried about you, sweetie.” She winked playfully at Morty. 

Morty blushed. 

Mary-Ellen bustled over with a tray of tea things and slices of Betty’s fruitcake. 

“Morty’s getting stronger everyday,” Mary-Ellen said confidently, sitting next to Dorcas on the couch. She passed tea and cake around. 

“Glad to hear that!” Betty said with a warm smile. “I need my post companion back. It’s lonely waiting for mail by myself.” 

Dorcas instinctively tightened her grip around Morty’s hand. She felt as if Betty was angling to replace her as Morty’s friend while Dorcas was off at school. She reasoned that, of course, Morty would need to have companions outside of his family, but they didn’t need to be  _ glamorous  _ companions. Dorcas was beginning to notice how similar in age Betty was to Morty. A more fitting friend for her uncle than a twelve-year-old kid. 

Morty pulled his hand from Dorcas’s grip, displeased with her restraining grasp. He refolded the paper crane in his lap once more and handed it to Betty. 

“For me, honey?” Betty looked delighted. She set her saucer and cup delicately on her knees and took the gift. “I don’t think I have a green one yet. I’ll put him with the others when I get back upstairs.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Balfour,” Mary-Ellen said, sipping tea. “I am grateful that you were able to help Dorcas and Morty that night.” 

Betty looked embarrassed by the heartfelt thanks. “It was nothing. All I did was ring for the ambulance.” 

“That made all the difference,” Mary-Ellen argued earnestly. 

Betty blushed and hid it with a sip of her tea. “I’ve often heard music coming from this flat. Who plays?” 

“Dorcas,” Mary-Ellen said, looking at her daughter with pride. 

“Not very well,” Dorcas added. “I’m just learning.” 

“Well, you’re off to a very good start from what I’ve heard!”

Dorcas looked down at her tea. She wished she was infinitely better at playing than she was. 

Betty looked to Dorcas with encouragement. “Would you play something for me?” 

Dorcas blushed. She looked to her mother. 

Mary-Ellen smiled and nudged her, taking her saucer and cup. “Go on. You’re better than you think.”

Dorcas crossed the room and sat at the keys. She thought about playing the piece that was her grandmother’s favorite, but was still uncertainly picking out the melody and plodding slowly through the notes. She decided instead to play ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ from memory. 

Betty soon joined her. Dorcas enjoyed adding embellishments and riffs along with the musician and singer. Soon, all four of them were singing spiritedly along. 

“Ooh! What’s this?” Betty asked, pulling Liesle’s Bach from the music stand and examining it. 

Dorcas swallowed. “It was a Christmas present. It belonged to my grandmother. I’m not good on that one yet.” 

“Let’s try it,” Betty said, nudging Dorcas playfully. 

“Okay.” Dorcas was disarmed by her cheerful smile. 

She became more at ease when Betty scrunched her nose up and proclaimed the piece to be a real challenge. 

“Dorcas could benefit from lessons,” Mary-Ellen chimed in.

Dorcas was picking out the left hand while Betty took the right. 

“She’s got the basics of the instrument and it’s clear that she can read music,” Betty agreed. “But she could definitely do with some proper technique.”

Dorcas became excited at the prospect of learning to play properly. Her earlier jealousy of Betty usurping her place as her uncle’s best friend evaporated. 

“Would you teach me, Betty?” Dorcas asked, brightly. 

“It wouldn’t take much instruction at all to get you up to scratch,” Betty said, continuing to pick out her part of the melody. “Let’s start now.”

Betty pointed out a few places in the music that could be problematic for Dorcas’s smaller hands. They practiced these bits a few times. 

By the time that Betty stood to leave, Dorcas could play the piece straight through, only stumbling once or twice. 

“Tomorrow we can do some pedal work,” Betty announced. 

Dorcas nodded eagerly. “Thank you!”

“Sure, honey,” Betty said with a smile. “Morty, maybe we can go for a walk tomorrow. Fresh air would do you some good.” 

Mary-Ellen agreed and showed Betty to the door. 

:::

12 October, 1957 Wizengamot Courtroom 2, Ministry of Magic, London

Theresa Allen was arguing with Steven Muybridge, pleading for him to leave the house quickly and quietly. She explained frantically that Jim would be home any minute and that Billy was asleep upstairs. 

You could see the realization in her face when Theresa finally understood that Steven had no intention of leaving; was even eager for a confrontation with her husband. 

Dorcas, Gideon, the Child Advocate Counsel, a court reporter, and five Wizengamot Family Court Judges stood on the periphery in silence as the scene unfolded. This was the final memory in a gamut of scenes they had all patiently watched play out. 

Jim Allen walked through the door a moment later. 

A beat. 

Jim spoke. “Theresa? Who is this?” He was confused. 

Theresa was tearful. “No one. H-he was just l-leaving.” She stared at Steven defiantly. 

Steven reached out and grabbed Theresa’s wrist, twisting. 

She cried out and stumbled. 

“Tell him,” Steven spat at her. “Tell him you’re leaving him.”

Jim was more confused than ever. “Theresa? What is he talking about? You’re leaving me?” Jim was hurt and bewildered. He looked pointedly at Steven’s firm grip on Theresa’s wrist and drew his wand. 

“No,” Theresa gasped. “I’m not leaving you.” She looked at Steven, “You are leaving. Get out.” 

Steven had quick reflexes. Jim had barely raised his wand when Steven had cast the spell that disarmed him. 

Theresa struggled, but managed to pull her arm from Steven’s grasp. He reached for her and tore her sleeve instead. 

She raised her own wand to defend herself and her husband. Her hand trembled. “I said get out, Steven.” 

“Look, I don’t know who you are,” Jim said, standing next to his wife. “We have money, some valuables. I’ll show you where. Just let my wife and boy leave first.” He was inching closer to his wife’s side. 

To Theresa, Jim instructed, “Get Billy and get out of here.” 

“No,” Theresa argued. “This is my fault.” 

Jim reached for Theresa’s wand. Steven anticipated this action and disarmed him again. 

“Theresa,” Steven spoke slowly and patiently. “We discussed this. You want to be with me. You don’t want this life anymore. It’s all planned.” 

Theresa was shaking her head violently. 

The look of confusion on Jim’s face was renewed. “What is this psychopath talking about?” 

Before Theresa could open her mouth to answer Jim there was a flash of green and Jim crumpled beside Theresa. 

“No!” Theresa screamed, collapsing over Jim’s prone form. “You’ve killed him?”

“Mummy?” a little voice called from the stairs. Theresa’s head whipped in the direction of the voice. Billy was on the stairs. The commotion had woken him from his nap. 

Like a flash, Theresa jumped to her feet and lunged forward placing herself between her son and Steven. 

“Don’t you hurt him,” she said. Hands in rigid claws, she struck out at him. 

Steven backhanded her effortlessly across the face, the force of the blow causing her to fall over Jim’s lifeless body. 

“Steven, please,” Theresa begged. Her nose was bloody, her eyes streaming. 

Steven Muybridge approached the child who stared wide eyed at his mother and father on the ground. 

He lifted his wand to the spot between Billy’s eyes. “ _ Obliviate _ .” 

The child sat on the stairs with a vacant expression and watched the scene with disinterest. 

Steven walked calmly over to Theresa, who still lay sprawled over her husband. 

“Theresa, love,” he said in a patronizing voice. “You should have followed the plan. This wouldn’t have happened.” He gestured to Jim, lying on the floor, eyes staring, dead. “This is all your fault.” 

He pulled her to her feet and led her to the couch. Theresa was still sobbing uncontrollably. 

Steven turned back to Jim and tossed the wand he’d taken from him on the ground next to him. Pointing his own wand at the ceiling, Steven said, “ _ Expulso _ .” The ceiling collapsed on top of Jim’s body. 

Steven returned to Theresa, sitting on the couch next to her and took her trembling face in one hand, turning her chin so that she was forced to look at him. With the other hand, he lifted his wand to her temple. “ _ Obliviate _ .”

Theresa’s eyes went vacant like her son’s. She stopped crying, stopped trembling. 

“ _ Riviso _ ” Steven continued. 

:::

The massive Pensieve that the court employed for memory testimony was stored once more below the flagstone floor in front of the Wizengamot witness chair. The judges, court reporter, counselor, and Dorcas returned to their seats. 

Gideon alone remained standing.

“You’ve seen two sets of memories,” he stated, recapping the experience for the judges, for good measure. “One, a narrative expertly tailored by a controlling and manipulative man. A man who stalked my client for two and a half years. A man who killed my client’s husband and then framed her, the woman he claimed to love. The other, a true narrative of events as they actually played out months ago in the Allen home.”

Gideon looked at Dorcas and nodded almost imperceptibly. 

Dorcas nodded back. She was up. Time to go over the technical and medical details. 

“I call Dr. Dorcas Clerey-Meadows to come forward and give testimony relevant to the innocence of my client, Theresa Allen.” 

Dorcas stood and moved around the wooden divider that separated the gallery seating from the counsel and the witness seating. Dorcas sat in the witness chair, her back ramrod straight. She was clad in a dark navy wool suit jacket and skirt. She knew that it was customary to wear robes at the Wizengamot. But she was not a conventional witness. She was a practicing psychiatrist--a Muggle profession. But she was also a qualified Healer. Like many other aspects of her life, she lived in both worlds simultaneously and never conformed to the prescribed rules for either of them. 

“State your name and profession for the record.” 

Dorcas spoke clearly and authoritatively. “Dr. Dorcas Clerey-Meadowes. I am a clinical psychiatrist and a Healer at St. Mungo’s Hospital.”

“Where did you earn the qualifications for these professions, Dr. Meadowes?” Gideon led her down an expected line of questioning. 

“I trained at Columbia University in New York. I also completed a residency at Mount Sinai Hospital, New York. I earned the requisite NEWTs for my Healer’s Certification from Hogwarts.” 

“And you consult on cases of Memory Modification?” 

“Occasionally,” Dorcas answered. “In America I worked with the New York City Police Department as well as for MACUSA.” 

“Both Muggle and Magical institutions. I would gather that you are rather well versed in both Wizarding and Non-Wizarding theories of the mind and of memories.” 

“I am.” Dorcas stated confidently. 

“Tell me,” Gideon asked, changing his line of questions from her profession to her observations about Theresa. “What were your impressions about Theresa Allen when she first came into your office.” 

“I observed a woman deep in the grief of losing her husband.” Dorcas looked in Theresa’s direction. She looked small and pale in this dark, wood paneled, masculine space. 

“A husband that she believed she’d been responsible for killing?” 

“Yes,” Dorcas agreed. “I believe that made coming to terms with his death all the more difficult for Mrs. Allen.” 

“Tell me about your approach with memory investigation.” 

“I questioned Theresa extensively about her relationship with her husband, Jim. I worked backwards from the memory that she had of his death to some of her earliest memories of him. I analyzed these memories and began to notice a pattern of inconsistencies in the later memories that did not exist in the earlier ones.” 

“What were these inconsistencies?” 

Dorcas looked at the five judges who had been observing and listening patiently. “Perhaps you noticed some of them yourselves. There was an obvious glitch. A hiccup in the movements of the people in the altered memories. There was also the same phantom smell. Cigarettes and cologne. You would have noticed these traits were also present in the unaltered memories and were clearly associated with Theresa’s boyfriend, Steven Muybridge.” 

Three of the judges nodded in agreement. They had picked up on some of the same signs. 

“Tell me about the serum that you’ve developed to uncover true memories that have been revised using the Memory Charm  _ Riviso _ ,” Gideon directed. 

“The Ex-Nebulae Elixir is a potion that I developed with my husband while practicing psychiatry in America.” 

“And can anyone take the elixir if they believe that they’ve had their memories tampered with?” 

Dorcas shook her head emphatically. “No. That would be dangerous. It must be focused carefully on a specific memory. I would only attempt this with a patient when I’ve confirmed a memory has been tampered with.” 

“By observing a glitch?” 

“Yes,” Dorcas continued. “Unaltered memories play through one’s mind without interruption. They can be recalled and played back perfectly. Even if a person is skilled in memory modification, there will be a signature left behind. A slowing down of a motion, a skipping of a frame, missing dialogue, something out of place.”

Gideon nodded. Dorcas could tell that he was mentally ticking off key points in his mind. 

“And what happens if the elixir is applied to memories that have not been altered?” 

“Memory loss,” Dorcas listed. “Numbness on the left side of one’s body, a loss of fine motor skills. It’s similar to the effects of a prolonged Memory Charm on the brain itself. Similar to the effects of prolonged use of many other COCs.” 

“COCs?” Gideon probed. 

“Compulsory Operational Curses. Curses and charms that take over the nervous system. Obliviate, Riviso, Stupefy, The Unforgivable Curses. If used repeatedly, these spells can damage neurological functions permanently.” 

“So the Ex-Nebulae Elixir must be carefully administered by a Healer and only on a confirmed memory revision?” Gideon clarified. 

“Indeed.” 

“Thank you Dr. Meadowes,” Gideon took his seat. 

She wondered if the Child Advocate Counsel would have many questions for her. 

The black robed gentleman with a graying ponytail and stubble stood and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

He came to stand a few feet from where Dorcas was seated. 

“Dr. Meadowes,” he began. “What is your professional opinion of Mrs. Allen’s fitness as a mother?” 

“I’ve had a lot of time to get the measure of Mrs. Allen’s character. She loves her son. She loved her husband. Steven Muybridge manipulated her feelings and used magic to control her. I believe she would do anything to get her son back. And I believe she is a good mother.” 

The Child Advocate Counsel nodded as she spoke. “Child Advocates want the child to be with their parents when possible and appropriate. The memories that you’ve collected are compelling. I believe they confirm that Mrs. Allen is no threat to her son’s safety.” He swivelled and faced the five judges seated opposite Dorcas. “I am inclined to grant the petition of custody to Mrs. Allen.”

The gray ponytailed wizard next looked to Gideon. “I will recommend that Mrs. Allen petition the courts immediately for an order of restraint to be sworn against Muybridge.” 

“It will be filed immediately,” Gideon agreed. 

One of the five judges, all of whom had been silent throughout the entire preceding, finally spoke. A dark haired and pale man with black eyes. “The petition for custody is so granted.” 

Theresa let out a cry and clapped her hands to her mouth. 

Gideon rose with an order of restraint in his hands for the judges to sign against Steven Muybridge. This would ensure that he would be kept away from Theresa’s house and place of employment. It was an empty gesture, really. Before the end of the day, an order for his arrest for murder would be filed as well. The last place Steven Muybridge would want to turn up was near Theresa or her son. 

Dorcas stood and left the witness stand. She was buoyant. It felt damn good to help someone who needed her.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

25 January 1940 Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

“I should like to see a village completely inhabited by witches and wizards,” Anneliese mused. “The comparison would be interesting, don’t you think?” She looked to Dorcas for agreement. 

Dorcas did agree. She was enthused about the impending Hogsmeade outing that had been announced on the message board in the Ravenclaw common room that morning. It was set for next Saturday. Dorcas had never seen the homes of magical people and, outside of Diagon Alley, had never seen shops and restaurants run by them either. First years were banned from the village in the fall term. This would be their first opportunity to venture beyond the grounds of Hogwarts. 

“It’s nothing to get worked up over,” Cherry shrugged. “Now automobiles, airplanes, bicycles. That’s something! They don’t run on magic at all!” 

Anneliese and Dorcas exchanged looks. Cherry could wax poetic for hours about Muggle inventions if given half the chance. This was part of her charm. 

Dorcas and Anneliese had given her a Kodak Brownie Junior for Christmas that she promptly disassembled. Each part seemed to be as treasured by Cherry as the whole camera itself. To Dorcas’s knowledge, she hadn’t figured out how to reassemble it yet. 

“There’s a bookstore with all kinds of books that aren’t--” Dorcas began. 

“Don’t say anything about books or the library,” Cherry cut her off. “I feel like an absolute boffin even being in this place.” She looked at the books on the shelves and shuddered as if they could infect her with some sort of plague. 

“You have detention in ten minutes anyway,” Anneliese reminded her. 

Cherry pulled a face at Anneliese. 

“What are you in for this time?” Dorcas asked, spreading a History of Magic essay out in front of her to revise. 

Anneliese answered before Cherry could. “She was late for Professor Maynard’s class.” She adopted a waspish tone. “Again.” 

“I had a long walk from greenhouse nine all the way up to Charms, thank you very much,” Cherry answered airily. She packed up the essay that she had grudgingly devoted fifteen whole minutes to. Anneliese packed up her books and parchment as well. 

“But you don’t have Herbology before Charms,” Dorcas said, confused. 

“Nope,” Anneliese said, settling the strap of her bag on her shoulder, standing. “But Darren does.” 

“It was worth it,” Cherry said in the same airy, above it all tone. “He kissed me.” 

Dorcas’s eyes went wide. “No!”

Cherry stood and shouldered her bag as well. She grinned and nodded excitedly. 

“Voluntarily?” Dorcas was shocked, recalling how Darren studiously tried to avoid personal contact with Cherry. 

“Maybe,” Cherry said evasively. “My charm will wear down even the strongest resolve.” 

Anneliese rolled her eyes. “Yep, like the Colorado eroding the Grand Canyon. He didn’t stand a chance!” She grabbed Cherry’s hand. 

“Hi, Tom. Bye, Tom,” Anneliese shot over her shoulder at the approaching boy, pulling Cherry behind her by the hand, like a mum with a wandering toddler. 

Dorcas laughed at her friends’ retreating forms. Tom took Cherry’s empty seat and laid his books down, his back to the two girls as they left. 

Cherry took the opportunity to mouth, “He’s cute! You should go for it!” at Dorcas and mimed a hot snogging session. 

Anneliese guided Cherry into a bookshelf before disappearing around a corner with her. 

Dorcas blushed and turned to her library companion. 

“Hey,” Tom said. 

Dorcas smiled faintly, hoping the color in her cheeks was returning to normal. She also hoped that he’d not witnessed Cherry’s pantomime. 

She was spared from talking to him for a moment as two Slytherins from her year approached them. Her cousin, Jonas and another boy from her Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, Wes Rookwood. 

“Little Librarian,” Wes called, addressing Dorcas with a smirk. 

Jonas nudged him in the ribcage. “Don’t call her that,” he admonished. “Dorcas,” he continued. “That essay about Stunning Spells.” 

“Yeah,” Dorcas answered. “I finished it yesterday.” She endeavored to keep her voice from rising in excitement when talking about school work. She knew other students found it amusing when she talked too enthusiastically about learning. 

“What books did you use?” Jonas asked. 

“Forget books!” Wes interjected. “Let us see your essay.” 

“Shut up,” Jonas said, shooting his friend an exasperated look. “I just want to know the best places to look. I don’t want you to do my work for me.” 

Dorcas nodded. “I used the  _ Spellman’s Syllabary _ to start, but I also looked up some case law in the legal section.” She ripped a scrap of parchment from the bottom of her notes and wrote down the shelf and row number. 

“Thanks,” Jonas said smiling. He and Wes walked away in whispered conversation. 

“They’re all using you,” Tom said once they were alone. 

Dorcas shrugged. “I don’t mind being helpful.” 

“One of these days you’ll regret being so obliging.” 

She considered this for a moment. She knew that she was a joke to some students. But it felt good to help people. She shrugged in response. “Maybe.” 

They worked in silence for another hour before Tom spoke again. 

He was packing up his books and rolled up an essay that he’d just completed. 

“Meet me outside of your common room tonight?” 

Dorcas thought about the request. She was sticking to the rule she’d set for herself. She only ventured out of bed to meet Tom on the weekends so that it didn’t interfere with classes. It was Friday. And she hadn’t spent a lot of time with Tom since she’d come back from Christmas break. 

“Okay,” she agreed. 

A charming smile lit his features. As he stood, Dorcas thought about what Cherry had mimed behind his back. She looked down as another blush gave her away. 

If Tom caught this reaction, he didn’t let on. He stacked his books and left with them. 

“See you.” 

Dorcas didn’t trust herself to respond. 

:::

25-26 January 1940, Ravenclaw First Year Girls’ Dormitory, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas selected her warmest jumper and pulled it over her head. She quietly surveyed herself in the mirror. She considered pulling her hair back in a tidy plait, but decided it would be warmer if she left it down over her shoulders and her neck. 

As quietly as she could, she opened the door to her dormitory. The sound of four girls breathing softly dimmed as she closed it behind her. Dorcas crept down the stairs and across the common room. 

Stepping out into the drafty corridor, Dorcas looked left and then right. She spotted Tom leaning against a railing beside the spiral staircase. 

He was dressed warmly as well in black wool trousers and a heavy gray coat. He had a cloak folded over his arm. 

“Are we going outside, Tom?” Dorcas asked, wondering if she should pop up to her dormitory to retrieve her cloak. 

“Yes,” he answered, tossing the cloak to her. 

“But what will you wear?” She held the cloak out but didn’t put it on. 

Tom took the cloak from her and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I’ll be fine.” 

Dorcas was about to insist on going back into her dormitory for her own outerwear, but Tom had already turned and walked down the spiral staircase. 

“Tom, wait for me!” Dorcas cringed. She sounded like such a child. 

He paused at the third floor landing and began to walk in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. Dorcas followed, walking doubletime to catch up to his long strides. She wondered if she should warn him about the Fat Lady. The large portrait was sure to tell them off if they wandered past her in the middle of the night. But, she supposed, Tom probably knew to avoid her. 

They didn’t get that far. Dorcas stopped next to Tom, relieved. She was about to ask him where they were going, but he was staring at a statue with such concentration that she thought better about it. 

Tom pulled out his wand. Dorcas wondered if she should also take her wand out. She watched Tom carefully. He moved around the back of the figure, a one-eyed witch with a large humped back partially hidden by her robes. 

“ _ Dissendium! _ ” Tom declared as he tapped the witch’s hump with his wand. 

Dorcas remembered Tom describing this statue to her as they lay on the floor of the Great Hall looking up at the enchanted ceiling. She became excited and bounced on the balls of her feet. 

Tom clambered into a hole that appeared on the hump of the statue. She carefully climbed up the statue and descended into a narrow space. 

She was plunged into complete darkness and struggled for a foothold, not sure how far the ground was beneath her. Instead, she slid down a slick stone chute for a moment. She stumbled forward and thought she might crash onto her hands and knees. Then she felt Tom’s hands at her waist, and soon after, solid earth beneath her feet. 

Dorcas turned in Tom’s direction though she could not see him. His hands were still on her, she could feel his breath at her ear. Her fingers searched the pocket of her skirt and she found her wand. 

“ _ Lumos! _ ” she whispered. 

They were in a narrow passage. She looked up the way they had just come. The passageway entrance was sealed once more. 

“Do you know where we’re going yet?” Tom asked with a playful gleam in his eye. 

He was standing very close to her. His hands were still on her. She could smell a scent that she always associated with him: fresh pine, as if she were surrounded by a very large and ancient forest. The cloak she was wearing carried the same scent. 

“Hogsmeade,” Dorcas whispered. 

Tom nodded, breaking his hold on her and taking her hand in his. 

She held her wand aloft, but Tom seemed to know the passageway well enough without it. It twisted and turned for a considerable length and she felt her eagerness fade somewhat into doubt. What would happen if they couldn’t retrace their steps back to the school? What if they were caught? Surely they would be in far more trouble than if they had simply been found in the corridors of the school out of bounds. 

“Stop it!” Tom’s voice commanded. 

Dorcas knew his voice was in her own head, because the sound did not echo around in the narrow stone chamber. 

“Stop what?” Dorcas asked. She wondered if Tom had learned to read thoughts like she could. 

“I know you’re worrying about getting caught,” Tom answered. She could hear the amusement in his voice. He squeezed her hand. “I can’t read minds, like you. But I think I know you well enough to guess.” 

She was silent for a moment. The passageway began to incline steadily. 

“Don’t you trust me?” He had stopped in the tunnel, blocking her path. He held her hand and stared at her earnestly. 

She answered without hesitation. “I do.” 

This earned her another smile. She felt her stomach flip. 

“Come on.” He tugged on her hand and drew her forward. 

She followed for what felt like ten minutes. Then the passageway terminated in some worn stone steps. She followed Tom up the steps; a hundred or more. He was breathing harder and so was she. She debated taking the cloak off. It was getting warm. 

Tom dropped her hand and placed both of his on a wooden door above them. She held her wand high, studying it. 

He heaved the heavy wood and it budged with a loud creak. Dorcas held her breath, worried someone would be awakened by the noise. Tom moved through the opening in the floor and then held a hand out to her to pull her through. 

“Put out the light,” he whispered. She obeyed, tucking her wand back into her pocket. 

She held his hand with both of hers and followed closely beside him. She looked around her. They seem to have emerged in the cellar of the candy store, Honeydukes. There were wooden boxes of inventory piled high around them. 

“Oh, Tom!” Dorcas breathed. “This is wonderful!” 

He laughed softly. “It’s a storeroom. You need to raise your expectations.” 

They climbed a flight of wooden stairs and Dorcas entered the sales floor after Tom. 

Brightly colored displays by day were muted at night. But Dorcas could imagine the riotous shades of candies in the daytime. She would come back next Saturday during the outing for a comparison. 

She could make out barrels of Every Flavor Beans and Fizzing Whizbees. 

Tom grabbed a Sugar Quill and popped it into his mouth. He led her to a display of caramels, chocolates, toffees, and a pink confection in the shape of a square. Its label said ‘Coconut Ice’.

Tom looked at her and followed her eyes. He pulled her behind the display and served her a pink square. 

She hesitated. “Tom, I can’t. It’s stealing.” 

He rolled his eyes and brought her hand up to the sweet, dropping the Coconut Ice into it. Then he crossed to the cash register and opened the till with his wand. He dropped four knuts into it. 

“You’re no fun at all,” he said, sucking on his quill. 

She smiled, pleased with the treat in her hand. 

They walked to the door and quietly exited the shop onto the high street. Dorcas was reminded suddenly that it was late January when a biting wind numbed her cheeks and fingers. Clutching her sweet, she tucked her hands into Tom’s cloak and pulled it tighter around her. He simply placed his hands in his pockets. Otherwise, Tom seemed to be unaffected by the blizzard like conditions. 

They strolled past the bookshop that Dorcas was keen to visit, but she saw an upstairs light on and reckoned that the owner lived above the shop. Best to save this visit for next week during business hours. 

Tom and Dorcas turned down a street that seemed more residential. The buildings were smaller, the windows lined with curtains. One house had a sign hanging on the door that marked it FOR SALE.

Tom took out his wand and spoke an incantation around his half-eaten Sugar Quill. The lock clicked and he turned the doorknob, holding the door open for Dorcas. 

It was a relief to be out of the stinging wind. Tom closed the door behind them and locked it. 

Dorcas spun surveying the space. 

“What do you think, Darling?” Tom said, hands in his pockets again. “Is it the home of your dreams?” 

Dorcas appraised the space. “I don’t know, Dear,” she answered, taking on the air of a discerning homebuyer. “I prefer a grander entryway.” She motioned haughtily at the plain wooden door they had just stepped through and the small, woven rug that bore the tracks of their snow covered shoes.

Tom nodded. “Look, it has a lovely little reading nook.” He sat down in a chair next to the fire, a bookcase lined the opposite wall. “I could read Keats aloud to you while you make my dinner.” His voice became snobbish. He gestured to the small kitchen opposite him. 

Dorcas scoffed. “You’ll make the meals while I read,  _ Dear _ ,” she argued. 

She climbed the stairs while Tom perused the book collection. She found three small bedrooms. They were cozy. The one in the far corner had a fireplace and a lovely view of the nearby mountains. 

Dorcas heard Tom coming up the stairs. 

“Darling?” He called in his snobbish voice. 

“Back here,” Dorcas answered. 

Tom stood in the doorway. Dorcas turned around and smiled at him. He was holding a book. 

“Does it have enough bedrooms?” He was surveying the home’s selling points again. 

“For the ten children we’re going to have?” Dorcas shook her head. “No, not enough.” 

Tom laughed. “ _ Ten? _ ” 

“I know you wanted  _ twenty _ , Dear,” Dorcas grinned. “But marriage is about compromise. I won’t go any higher than ten.” 

“Then this house won’t do at all,” he replied, placing his free hand in his pocket, leaning against the door’s frame. 

“What book is that?” Dorcas asked, breaking the pretense of the joke. She was unfastening the cape and laying it on the bed. She sat down as Tom crossed the room and handed it to her. She took it and gently placed her Coconut Ice on the bedside table. 

“A Thousand and One Nights,” she said fondly, reading the cover. “This is my favorite.” 

Tom lit a fire in the fireplace with his wand and climbed onto the bed next to her. “Read it to me,” he asked, his voice gentle, like a child asking for a bedtime story. 

Dorcas opened the book. She broke her pink confection in half and handed a piece to Tom. She ate the other piece and began to read. Tom shifted lower in the bed so that his head was on the pillow. Dorcas did the same, reaching for the cloak and pulling it over their legs. 

Dorcas finished two vignettes of the epic tale and closed the book. 

“Birdie?” 

Tom propped his head up with one hand, resting his elbow on the pillow beside her. His eyes fixed her with an intense stare. His eyes were very dark and serious. 

“Yes?” She tried to keep her voice neutral, though his tone and his gaze made it clear that he wanted something from her. 

“I want you to teach me how you do what you do.”

“What do I do?” she hedged. She leaned back on her pillow and stared back at him, clutching the book to her chest, like a talisman. 

“You see into the minds of others. I want to know how to do that.” He moved closer to her. He was staring into her eyes, as if he could find out the secret just by looking deeply enough. 

She pushed Tom back with the hand that held the book. He was too close. Her thoughts became muddled when he stared at her like that. Sitting up, she felt the spell break. Her heart was racing. 

“Tom,” she sighed. “I already explained to you. I didn’t learn it. So how can I teach it to you?” 

“Try,” Tom argued. There was a plea in his voice. The sound of it tore at her resolve. She wanted to give him anything in her power to give when he spoke to her like that. “Try to read my mind and then tell me how you do it.” 

“I’m not sure it works that way,” Dorcas explained, her voice a whisper. 

Tom took the book away from her, like removing her armor, and cast it aside. He moved so that he was kneeling in front of her, his face inches from hers. He took her hands and pulled her into a kneeling position opposite him. 

“Okay,” Dorcas conceded. “Don’t project out, like you do when you talk to me with your mind,” Dorcas said. She was very skeptical of her ability to pass this skill on to Tom. 

Tom nodded. Every movement he made was tense. He reminded Dorcas of a coiled snake, ready to strike. 

“Okay,” Dorcas said, trying to pep talk herself. 

She reached out with her mind. She felt an electricity in the palms of her hands as they rested in the grip of Tom’s hands. She was hyper aware that this was a very intimate act. She thought back to Cherry’s charade in the library earlier that day and broke the connection with Tom. 

“What’s wrong,” Tom asked. 

Dorcas was too self conscious, too aware of Tom's proximity to her. She pulled her hands away from his. 

“This isn’t going to work.” She folded her hands in her lap. She wouldn’t look at him. 

“Birdie,” Tom said. He placed his hands on either side of her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Birdie,” he pleaded. “Try. Please try.” 

She nodded and took his hands from her face, holding them in her lap. She stared at him once more. She noticed every detail of his eyes. The deep brown became pools, images reflected in their surface. She settled on one reflection. Flame. 

As she focused on the flame flickering behind his eyes, it became a large piece of furniture, a wardrobe in an otherwise drab and sparse room. A younger boy version of Tom sat on the bed looking at the burning wardrobe. Professor Dumbldore stood opposite the younger Tom. Dorcas had the impression Dumbledore had caused the fire. 

Leaving the memory felt like breaking the surface of water. She gasped. 

“What did you see?” Tom asked, eager. He released her hands again and grabbed her face. Holding her gaze with his own. 

“A burning wardrobe?” 

Tom gave a triumphant shout. “You did?” 

He pulled her close to him and kissed her lips. Dorcas was stunned. The feeling of electricity between her palms and Tom’s that she had sensed earlier was coursing through her entire body now. 

“You’re brilliant!” he shouted, smiling at her. 

She wondered if he was even aware of what he’d just done. 

“Okay,” he continued, refusing to let Dorcas go. “Tell me exactly what you did. Tell me what it felt like. Tell me every detail.” 

Dorcas swallowed hard. She couldn’t find her voice. 

Tom’s grip softened. He stroked her hair, dropped his hands to hers resting in her lap once more. His thumbs rubbed the backs of her hands encouragingly. 

“I stared into your eyes,” Dorcas recalled, unable to think clearly, head fuzzy. “I began to see a lot of things and I focused on one and concentrated really hard.” She knew she wasn’t explaining what had happened just right. She began to be angry that words were failing her. 

“It’s okay,” Tom said, noting how her shoulders fell. “Let me try on you.” 

Tom stared at Dorcas once more. Dorcas couldn’t clear the kiss from her mind. She knew that if he was successful, if he could breach the walls of her mind, the memory of the kiss would be the first thing he saw. She wanted to push it to the back of her mind. She wanted to control what he saw. 

Tom stared into her eyes for a moment, the intensity of his gaze made Dorcas want to pull away. Finally, he shook his head. “I can’t see anything but your eyes.” 

He didn’t sound defeated. He sounded energized, hopeful. 

Dorcas felt something between them change, become more. She blushed and looked away. The fire was nearly out in the grate on the opposite wall. 

“Don’t be discouraged,” Tom said, his right hand released her left and he slipped it behind her neck. His fingers winding into her hair. “You were amazing. I didn’t expect to learn in just one night. We’ll continue again another time.” 

She felt a little better, less like a failure. 

He kissed her again, a deeper kiss. His left hand, grasping her right hand guided it to his chest, under his coat, at his heart. He covered it with his hand. Her left hand slipped under his coat and around to his back. Tom gasped at her touch and wound his fingers deeper in her hair. He leaned forward, pushing her back against the headboard. 

Tom broke the kiss. He was breathing hard. 

He looked to the fire and noticed that it was almost out as well. “We should go.” 

:::

26 January, 1940 Ravenclaw First Year Girls’ Dormitory, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

The January sun was too weak for Dorcas to gauge the time properly. She rolled over in her bed and looked at the little clock on her bedside table. It was just after eleven o’clock in the morning. She didn’t remember looking at the time when she had climbed into bed after leaving Tom outside of the Ravenclaw common room last night (or, rather, earlier this morning). They were painfully silent the entire trek back up the passageway and to the fourth floor corridor. She couldn’t be sure what Tom was feeling. His face was a mask of indifference. 

She knew her own feelings, however. She was awash in humiliation and fear. It came back to her the moment she opened her eyes. 

The instant that she’d responded physically to Tom’s kiss, letting her hand slip under his coat and to his back, he’d tensed like a skittish animal. Her face felt hot and she threw her covers over her head. At this time of day, though, she didn’t have to peek out from under her covers to know that she was alone in the room. 

She remembered how quickly Tom had moved away from her. She remembered how he wouldn’t look at her. She was afraid that she’d just scared off her friend--perhaps, her best friend. As much as she wanted to find him and clear the air, her first and loudest instinct was avoidance. 

She dressed hastily, finding the wool skirt and thick cable knit jumper she wore last night and threw them back on hastily. She considered where she might be rushing off to only to realize that it wasn’t  _ where _ she wanted to run to, but  _ what _ she wanted to run from. If only she could reverse time, she would take all of the kissing and the touching back. 

She needed a distraction. She considered the library. It was very likely she would run into Tom there. She couldn’t think of a single nook or deserted corridor in the school in which she hadn’t been in Tom’s company. 

Dorcas now regretted rushing through her school assignments. She had nothing to distract herself with. 

An idea struck her. She remembered the conversation she’d had with her mother about her Uncle Morty and had made a mental note to look into some of the spells and curses that her mother had mentioned. She could start by finding out more about the institution he’d been sent to. She knew of a few references that mentioned schools and hospitals in the Wizarding World. It would mean a trip to the library. But she didn’t have to stay. She could check out some books and make a run for it. 

She nodded to herself, resolved. Bending to lace up her shoes, she left Ravenclaw Tower and traced a familiar path to the library. 

“Dorcas,” she heard Anneliese call. She looked up and saw her two friends walking toward her arm in arm. “We missed you at breakfast.” 

Dorcas tucked her hair behind her ears, remembering sheepishly that she hadn’t bothered to tie it back, or even to brush it. She was falling apart. 

“I skipped it. I was tired.” 

Anneliese looked closely at her. “Are you feeling okay? You look pale.” 

“I’m fine. I was just headed to the lib--” Dorcas was interrupted by Cherry, who made a retching noise. 

“Don’t say library! Anneliese just made me spend an hour doing homework in there.” 

“Library,” Dorcas finished blandly. 

“We’re going to find the boys and get a game of Exploding Snap together in the Trophy Room if you want to join us later.” Anneliese smiled amiably, raising her eyebrows hopefully. 

“Alright,” Dorcas nodded. “Maybe I will.”

She continued down the hallway as Anneliese and Cherry descended the stairs. 

Dorcas slipped into the library like a spy and scanned the crowd assembled there for Tom. He was not present as far as she could tell. The tense muscles in her shoulders loosened a little. She perused the titles on the shelves in the institutional reference section. She selected  _ Medical Institutions of Great Britain _ and flipped to the index. Wingate Institution was mentioned on several pages. She grabbed another reference that looked promising and hefted the two books in her arms. 

Checking out was a nerve wracking affair in which Dorcas was sure Tom would walk in any minute and her fears would be confirmed. Things would be irreversibly awkward between them. But he didn’t walk in and Dorcas checked her books out and retreated from the library without incident. 

Finding a niche that was obscured by a tapestry on the third floor, Dorcas settled in with her books and began to read. 

In  _ Medical Institutions of Great Britain _ Dorcas learned that Wingate Institution was founded around the same time as Hogwarts was, meaning it was very old. She also learned that it was founded to treat patients who suffered from ailments related to spell damage. This was ironic to Dorcas. According to her mother, it became an institution that inflicted spell damage, rather than healing it. The main mission of the hospital began to change under the leadership of a healer named Matthias Burke who served as the Healer in Charge for the hospital from 1823 to 1888. She made a mental note to look the wizard up on her next trip to the library.

She was interrupted by Bing who slinked behind the tapestry and jumped onto the ledge that Dorcas was sitting on. She scratched her kitten’s ears, wondering what the animal did all day to occupy himself. 

Her musings were interrupted by a larger form that followed the cat behind the tapestry. 

“Clerey,” Cal said, unsurprised to see Dorcas sitting there. “What are you reading?” 

Dorcas showed him the title. She was not annoyed at Cal for breaking her solitude. In fact, he was a welcome distraction. She hadn’t gotten a chance to catch up with him since arriving back at Hogwarts after Christmas break. 

“That looks gripping,” Cal said, scanning the title. He didn’t say it in a sarcastic way, like Cherry would have. He genuinely seemed interested. 

“Sit,” Dorcas offered, pulling her feet toward her and readjusting her skirt, offering him half of the niche she was occupying. “How did you find me?” 

“Bing,” Cal said simply, taking the seat that Dorcas offered. 

He was wearing a thick corduroy jacket and wool trousers. His cheeks were red, indicating that he’d just come in from the chilly wind. The gloves he held in his hands confirmed this. 

“I ran into Cherry and Anneliese. They said you were in the library. I checked there first and then I saw this little fella creeping behind the tapestry. He gave you away.” 

“Did you want something?” Dorcas wondered why Cal was seeking her out particularly. 

Cal shrugged. “No. Just wanted to see you.” 

“How is your brother?” Dorcas asked politely. 

“All mended and back to training,” Cal reported. “Mother isn’t happy about that. I think she would have injured him again if it meant keeping him from the Front.” 

“He’s a pilot?” Dorcas seemed to remember a conversation in which Cal had mentioned the Air Force. 

Cal nodded. “And your uncle?” 

Dorcas tried hard to forget that night. She still felt so guilty about her uncle’s fall. 

“He’s recovered.”

“So what’s got you looking up hospitals in Britain?” Cal reached for the book, open to the page that Dorcas had been reading. “Do you want to be a healer?” 

Dorcas shrugged. The thought had never occurred to her that she would have to decide on a profession one day. Healer. That could be interesting. 

She considered just replying “yes” and avoiding a real conversation about her uncle and all that her mother had shared with her. There was something about Cal’s easy manner and his genuine interest in the things that she said that made her want to confide in him. 

“My uncle was sent to that place when he was a child,” Dorcas said, pointing to a photograph of Wingate with a sepia toned staff of healers waving in the foreground. 

Cal looked from her to the book in his hand and read quickly. “Why?” 

“My grandfather thought,” Dorcas struggled for words. “I don’t know. That it would make him do magic, or just to hide him. I’m not sure.” 

Cal turned the page and continued reading. “This doesn’t seem like a good place.” 

Dorcas agreed. She explained the treatments that her mother told her about and described the state that her uncle’s mental processes were in now as a result. 

“Magic can be incredibly destructive,” Cal admitted, more to himself than to Dorcas. “And healers should know better than to experiment on children like that.” 

“I wonder if they’re still operational,” Dorcas mused. 

Cal shuddered. “I hope they’ve been shut down.” He handed the book back to Dorcas. 

Dorcas sighed and rubbed her blurry eyes. 

Cal studied her for a moment. 

“Come on. Let’s find the others and play games. You’ve had enough sitting in the dark and reading by yourself.” He stood and held out a hand to her. His other arm held her library books. 

Dorcas agreed. She couldn’t hide behind tapestries in the dark forever. She scooped up Bing and took Cal’s hand. 

Stepping into the lightened third floor corridor, it took her eyes a moment to adjust. As they did, she saw Tom walking past them. She caught his pointed glance at Dorcas’s hand in Cal’s. He strode by without comment. They could have been strangers on a busy London street. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

2 February 1940, Charms Corridor outside of Trophy Room, Third Floor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas was on her way to breakfast and then to meet Cherry, Anneliese, and the rest of the gang for the outing to Hogsmeade. Unable to contain her excitement, Dorcas had jumped out of bed and dressed warmly hours before she was expected to meet her friends. To kill time, she decided to stroll the mostly deserted corridors. She had anxiously awaited this trip for a week. Of course, she’d seen some of Hogsmeade’s darkened streets and properties by night last Friday with Tom. But she was very interested to see it in daytime without fear of being caught and reprimanded. 

Tom had been avoiding her for the last seven days. Or, she had been avoiding him. Or, she reasoned, the avoidance may be mutual. It reminded Dorcas of the time that Tom had pressed her to read his mind in the library and she'd refused. That time, she had been the one hiding from him. 

But she’d given in to him this time. She’d done what he wanted. His avoidance confused her. Was he cross with her because the experiment had failed and she hadn’t been able to guide him into seeing her thoughts? Had it been about the kiss? Was he regretting the turn toward the physical that their relationship had taken? She wished that she was bold like Cherry. If she had half of her friend’s nerve, she would corner Tom and demand that he get it all out in the open, no matter what it was that was bothering him. 

But Dorcas had the nerve of a dormouse. 

She happened to look up as she was passing a plaque outside of the Trophy Room. She sometimes stared at this shiny bronze list of names. There were no Clereys or Rackharrows named on it. But, then again, Dorcas thought, there wouldn’t be. This was a long list of engraved names of students from Hogwarts who’d died in conflict. The most recent names carried dates from the Great War. Dorcas knew very little of her father, but one thing she’d learned was that he was the first magical member of his family and too young to have fallen in the trenches. And the Rackharrows seemed to be the kind of family that did not sacrifice its members to battles. Especially ones that supported the goals of Muggles. 

There was a new name there that Dorcas hadn’t seen before. 

_ John-Robert McEnroy 4 January, 1940 _

Seeing the list continue with a new addition caused a sense of foreboding to settle into Dorcas’s bones. The names above it carried dates from before she was born. In a way, this had separated the horrible events of the past from her life completely. The addition of McEnroy to the list now acted as a tether to Dorcas. The war raging in Europe was a reality now in a way it hadn’t been before. Then, it was just newsprint stories separated by hundreds of miles and bodies of water. 

She wondered who he was. 

“He was the Keeper that Cal replaced,” came a lilting voice over Dorcas’s shoulder. It made her jump. 

“Darren!” Dorcas turned to the speaker. She was breathing rapidly from the surprise. She’d mistakenly thought she was alone. 

Cherry’s dark-haired Irish paramour came to stand next to Dorcas, his eyes fixed on the name that she’d been studying. 

“He was in Gryffindor?” she asked. 

Darren nodded. “JR was captain of the team last year. He must have been just eighteen or nineteen when he died last month.” 

Dorcas thought about that for a moment. He was no more than six years older than her. Practically a child himself. 

“C’mon,” Darren said, nudging Dorcas. “Let’s get down to breakfast. Everyone’s probably waiting for us.” 

:::

31 October 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas refilled the decanter with scotch and replenished the ice bucket from the freezer in the kitchen. She arranged some glasses on a tray. 

She could hear Anneliese playing ‘ShBoom (Life Could Be A Dream)’ on the piano in the sitting room. 

Cherry bustled into the kitchen and placed some empty glasses into the sink. 

Dorcas deposited the tray on the bar beside the piano along with the scotch and ice. She took the empty gin bottle back into the kitchen with her. 

The sight of Cherry on her knees in a party dress, her upper half buried deep inside Dorcas’s refrigerator made her gasp in panic. 

“Cherry!” Dorcas commanded. “Step away from my Frigidaire!” 

“But the light blob is loose,” Cherry said confidently. “I can fix it.” 

Dorcas knew it was futile to argue about appliances and gadgets with Cherry. She needed a distraction. A bait-and-switch to spare her poor icebox. 

Placing the empty gin bottle on the counter, she looked for its replacement in the liquor shelves above the stove. Among the vodka, scotch, rum, and various other bottles, Dorcas could not find more gin. 

Cal walked into the kitchen and admonished Cherry as well, to no effect. 

“Cal,” Dorcas interrupted. “We’re out of gin.” It was shameless. She knew Cal would jump on an opportunity to drive his sports car to the store. She also knew that a ride in a fast automobile would be a temptation that was too great for Cherry to resist. 

“No problem,” Cal said genially, taking his keys from his pocket and tossing them in the air once before catching them. 

The jingle of keys was a siren call. Cherry shot out of the fridge and closed its door. “Can I come along, Cal?” 

Dorcas turned back to the liquor cupboard and smiled. Too easy. 

“Sure, Red!” Cal replied. He crossed the room and kissed Dorcas’s neck, whispering so low that only she could hear. “Well played.” 

Dorcas turned a radiant smile on him. 

“Can I drive?” Cherry asked, batting her lashes and turning on her considerable charm. 

Cal laughed, “Not a chance, Weasley!” He held an arm out gallantly for her to take and they headed for the door. 

“Dory,” Cherry called behind her. “I’m driving off with your husband and never coming back!” 

This earned a laugh from Dorcas as she headed back into the sitting room with plates and napkins. 

_ If you would tell me I’m the only one that you love,  _

_ Life could be a dream sweetheart… _

Dorcas sang to herself as she fulfilled little hostess tasks around her sitting room. She missed the tapping on the glass slider to the backyard completely. 

“What was that?” Anneliese stopped playing and looked in the direction of the veranda. 

Dorcas followed her gaze. There was nothing there. 

“I didn’t hear anything.” 

They both jumped when the front door opened. 

“We’re back!” Theresa Allen called, toting a miniature cowboy in one hand and a black kitten in the other. Billy and Wren both carried bulging sacks of candy. Behind Theresa, Beau and Jonas also had small costumed charges. Trevor, Beau and Anneliese’s seven year old was dressed as a clown. He towered above them all on Jonas’s shoulders, laughing maniacally with a lollipop in one hand. Beau had a sleeping lamb in his arms; their three year old, Joy. 

An intruder sailed in with the Trick-or-Treating party. A disgruntled gray owl that promptly dropped a letter on the floor and retreated out of the door before Beau could close it. 

Theresa dropped the hands of the cowboy and the kitten and picked up the letter. 

“For you, Dorcas.” 

“That explains the tapping,” Anneliese said as the clown ran over and sat on the piano bench beside her. 

Taking the letter from Theresa, Dorcas opened it. There was no address. 

_ Dr. Meadowes,  _

_ Do you remember the house-elf I told you about? Are you free to meet her tomorrow?  _

_ Gideon _

Dorcas dropped the letter in her apron pocket and poured drinks for the thirsty crowd. She would respond to Gideon later.

“Was it a good haul?” she asked Jonas, handing him a scotch and soda. 

Jonas nodded, sipping. “I think they’ve emptied the neighborhood.” He looked around the room. “Where’s Cherry?” 

Dorcas shrugged. “Your woman ran off with my man.” 

:::

2 February 1940 Avenue from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade Village

Dorcas, Cherry, and Anneliese walked slowly, their arms linked with one another. Cherry purposefully set a leisurely pace to put some distance between them and the boys, who’d been talking Quidditch non-stop since descending the steps of the school. Dorcas was interested in what the boys were saying. The impending match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff was a hot topic among most students in the school just now. 

Dorcas was still woefully ignorant of the intricacies of the game, but she enjoyed the opportunities she got to observe the players in action. The Gryffindor team was unquestionably superior to the other house teams in skill as well as speed. But Beau argued Hufflepuff’s chances at unseating the current Quidditch Cup favorites were good. A belief that was bolstered enthusiastically by the only other Hufflepuff of their party, Anneliese. 

As the distance grew between the boys and the girls, Dorcas could only hear snatches of their sports talk. 

Cherry seemed to be orchestrating a plot to separate Dorcas and Anneliese from the herd. This was confirmed when she tightened her grip on Dorcas’s arm and whispered conspiratorially. 

“What’s going on with you and Tom?”

Surprised, Dorcas looked at her friend, her eyebrows raised. Cherry stared back determinedly. Anneliese was looking at her too. Though her interest seemed more polite than pushy. 

“What’s going on?” Dorcas repeated. “Nothing.” 

“Rubbish,” Cherry said, shaking her head, unwilling to be put off so easily. 

Anneliese opened her mouth to speak, probably in an attempt to redirect Cherry. But she was preempted. 

“You spend a lot of time with him,” Cherry argued. 

“We study together,” Dorcas replied with a shrug. She reached her free hand up to the braid that hung over her left shoulder and tugged on it with her mittened fingers. 

“Ha!” Cherry shouted triumphantly. “That’s your tell!”

“My what?” Dorcas asked, confused. 

Anneliese shushed Cherry. “Keep your voice down, for God’s sake, Cherry.” 

“Your tell. The little things you do when you’re being evasive. You fiddle with your plait.” 

Dorcas dropped her hand and Cherry made another triumphant noise. The boys looked back at them curiously. This made Dorcas extremely uncomfortable. She knew without a doubt that Tom would not like being the object of gossip between her and her girlfriends. She did not much like being the subject of it herself. 

“Not everyone has to pair off. Boys and girls can be completely platonic friends, you know,” Anneliese argued on Dorcas’s behalf, in hushed tones. 

The boys had stopped walking and were waiting at the high street for them to catch up. 

“And Dorcas said nothing’s going on. I think he’s a nice boy and a good friend to Dory. So leave it alone, Cherry.” 

Cherry seemed to accept this for the moment. At least, she couldn’t argue her point further because they were almost level with the boys. 

Cherry broke her hold on Dorcas and Anneliese and skipped over to Darren, taking his hand. “Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks,” she suggested. 

Anneliese pulled Dorcas to her side with an arm around her waist. “Sorry. I did ask Cherry not to parade her theories around.” 

Dorcas nodded, trying to tuck her flaming cheeks into the scarf that wrapped around her neck. She didn’t know what to say to that. 

:::

They did pair off sometime later that afternoon. 

Cherry and Darren were the first to disappear. This was unsurprising to Dorcas, as they looked like they wanted to find a dark corner somewhere private since they’d arrived in Hogsmeade. Leaving the Three Broomsticks, the couple turned the opposite direction of the rest of their party, hand in hand. 

Cal and Beau laughed about it all the way to Honeydukes. 

The candy store was as vibrant and splendid as Dorcas knew it would be in the light of day. 

Beau held some Cockroach Clusters to Anneliese's face, eliciting a scream from her as she jumped back and nearly knocked over a display of candied fruits. Cal and Dorcas laughed. 

Dorcas felt lighter. A Butterbeer had helped her to shake off the mortifying interrogation from earlier. 

The store was crowded with students and they were all jostled along from one display to another. 

Cal bought some Pepper Imps and shared them around with the other three. They left the shop. 

Dorcas turned right, saying she wanted to visit the bookstore. 

Beau and Anneliese turned left and intended to visit Dervish and Bang’s. 

Cal waved off Beau and Anneliese, declaring that he was interested in the bookstore as well. He caught up to Dorcas saying, “Clerey, wait up.” 

The shop was warm and cozy with rows of books and squashy armchairs and a roaring fire. The heat was welcome after the cold of the street. Dorcas and Cal wandered to opposite ends of the store, scanning titles. 

Dorcas found a robust Spells and Enchantments section. There were also quite a few biographies of witches and wizards that looked worthwhile. She picked up a book about Rowena Ravenclaw and flipped through the pages. The quiet of the shop stood in stark contrast to Honeydukes. Dorcas removed her scarf and moved to the end of the shelf with the book open in the other hand, reading as she walked. She’d like to find a seat in the corner somewhere and look through a stack of books for the remainder of the afternoon. Looking up as she approached a secluded corner, her eyes met Tom’s. 

He was sitting in the corner, doing exactly as she’d liked to have done: flipping through book after book in solitude. 

Dorcas moved closer. She wanted to say something. He looked at her expectantly. 

“Clerey,” she heard Cal call from a shelf or two away. 

Dorcas considered asking Tom to meet her somewhere so that she could finally clear the air. Instead, she broke eye contact and looked over her shoulder.

“Here, Cal.” She answered back and turned to see what he wanted. She closed the biography and replaced it exactly where she had taken it from the shelf. 

Cal turned the corner. “Look at this.” He handed her a thin book. The title of the navy cover said ‘ _ A Hiding Place: Lost Children of Wingate _ ’ in embossed silver script. 

Dorcas was immediately interested in the contents of its pages. She looked at the author’s picture, a stern female journalist with a classic chignon hairstyle framing very patrician features. Her name was Harriet Finnigan. The book was published in 1936. Recent. 

Cal moved down the row a little further, scanning the titles on the shelves. She knew that he was just giving her space. She could tell that he was becoming just as engaged in her investigation of Wingate as she was. She flipped through the pages. 

Her eyes caught a flickering picture and Dorcas stopped flipping and turned back one page. There in black and white, the hospital was engulfed in a fearsome conflagration. The flames in the picture climbed high over the walls of the stone structure. The caption read: “Wingate Institution was destroyed by fire on 26 October, 1926. It never reopened.” 

The book’s publication, Dorcas guessed, was coordinated with the anniversary of the fire that destroyed the hospital in 1926. 

“It burned down.” Dorcas’s heart was racing. She wanted to know more. Her impulses to research were stifled in this commercial establishment. She had a powerful desire to be back at the school’s library. 

Cal returned to her side, smiling appreciatively. “You want to return to school, don’t you?” He shook his head. “Nerd,” he added, affectionately. 

“Sorry, Cal,” Dorcas said, digging in her pocket for her money. “I’m sure that you can catch up with Beau and Anneliese.” 

“Put away your money, Clerey.” Cal winked. “I already bought it for you. Let’s go.” 

Dorcas protested. “Cal, you didn’t have to do that. And I don’t want you to have to cut your visit short on my account.”

Cal opened the shop’s door. The bell above it tinkled. He placed a hand on the small of her back and ushered her out. “Nonsense,” he countered. “I wanted to buy it for you. So I did.” 

He took his gloves out of his coat pocket and put them on. Dorcas tucked the book under one arm and fished her own mittens out. 

“I want to walk you back to school, too,” Cal said with a shrug. 

“Okay.” Dorcas buttoned her coat all the way up to her neck. 

They walked in silence down the high street and turned onto the lane that led back to school. The sky was darkening and the clouds looked like they were ready to dump snow. 

“There’s a new name on that plaque on the third floor,” Dorcas said after a while. 

Cal nodded, looking at his shoes as they crunched the snow and gravel underfoot. He walked a few steps before answering. 

“Yeah,” he said, hands in his pocket. “Gryffindor Tower was buzzing with the news this week.” 

He looked at Dorcas. She held her book to her chest and crossed her arms against the freezing wind. 

“There will be many more names on it before this is all over.” Cal stopped. Dorcas stopped too. “Where’s your scarf? It’s really cold out here.” 

Dorcas’s mittened hand went to her throat. She knew she’d had one on earlier. 

“I--” she started to answer, but couldn't remember what she’d done with it.

Cal was unwinding his own scarf from around his neck. Smiling, he wrapped it around Dorcas, tucking her braids into the coils and arranging it so that it covered her ears. 

“Thanks,” was Dorcas’s muffled response beneath the warm woolen garment. 

Cal laughed and threw his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t mention it, Clerey.” 

:::

1 November 1957 Ministry of Magic Atrium, London

Dorcas’s heels echoed as she crossed the highly polished black stone floor of the Ministry atrium. She drew some notice, as she often did in the Wizarding parts of London. She wore a smart wool suit in a muted mushroom color with a gray silk top. Most of the Ministry workers and officials around her wore robes. She could also be gaining some notoriety for other reasons, Dorcas guessed. 

The Daily Prophet had mentioned her role in exonerating Theresa Allen, focusing on her techniques with Memory Charms. The front stoop of her home had never had so many letters. All of them from crackpots hoping to game the system by claiming foul play on their minds. Begging her to prove all manner of conspiracies for them. 

She spotted Gideon Prewett leaning against the wall near a bank of busy lifts, shooting up and down with witches and wizards hurrying off to this meeting or that one. She held her hand out as she approached. 

“Counselor,” she greeted him. 

“Dr. Meadowes,” Gideon replied. “Thank you for coming. I really appreciate your time.”

“Of course. I must admit, it’s a little mercenary. I’m curious about the case. I’ve never studied the memories of house-elves.”

Gideon gave her a weak smile. Dorcas could tell that something was weighing on him. 

She followed him into a lift with three others. 

“Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” Gideon said to the lift attendant. 

“Fourth Floor,” the attendant announced, pulling a lever. 

They shot upward. 

“Dorcas,” Gideon said, turning to her and speaking in a hushed tone. “I should warn you. This is not a nice part of the Ministry that we’ll be going to.” 

Dorcas set her shoulders and gripped her handbag tighter. “I will be perfectly fine. Gideon.” 

“Fourth Floor,” the attendant announced only seconds later. 

Gideon, Dorcas, and a frazzled witch all got out. 

The witch disappeared behind a door labeled Beast Division. 

“This way,” Gideon said. His tone deflated further. 

Dorcas followed Gideon down a long stone corridor. It had none of the polish and decoration of the atrium. It was drab and utilitarian. They passed doors identifying the departments behind them. Being Division, Spirit Division, Goblin Liaison Office, Centaur Liaison Office, and finally a door that simply said CONTAINMENT. 

Gideon opened the door and Dorcas followed him in. 

The smell and noise was overwhelming. 

“Heavens!” Dorcas’s hand shot up to her nose. 

“Yes,” Gideon said, handing her a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “You don’t get used to that.” 

A stony-faced attendant looked up as they neared. “Names?” 

“Gideon Prewett, Ministry Defense Counsel for Hokey the House-Elf. And Dorcas Meadowes, Healer and Muggle Psychiatrist.” 

The wizard eyed Dorcas. “Syko-what?”

Gideon tried to translate. “Mind...healer.” 

The wizard shrugged. “Wands.” 

Gideon took out his wand and handed it to the attendant. He nodded to Dorcas to do the same. She complied. Her apprehension was growing. Why was she unable to keep her wand with her? 

The attendant stowed their wands in a metal box and tapped it with his own wand. Dorcas felt very vulnerable seeing her wand locked away where she couldn’t access it. Then he pointed his wand at a door beyond his station and it clicked open to admit them. 

As she entered the room behind Gideon, the smell and sound intensified. Dorcas couldn’t identify precisely what it was, but the combination made her eyes water. She held the cloth that Gideon had given her to her nose. There was no solution for the barking and snarling that assailed her ears. 

As they moved deeper into the room, Dorcas could make out cages with thick iron bars. A sign hung on each of these cages. One cage read XXX. The one next to it XX. And another XXXX. 

“What does that mean?” Dorcas asked, her voice muffled by the handkerchief she held to her face and the cacophonous din that she had to shout over. 

“It’s a danger classification,” Gideon explained. “XX is the label for a creature that most wizards should be able to fend off if they’re competent. And it goes up from there.” 

Gideon and Dorcas stopped in front of the cage of a tiny house-elf with a danger classification of XXXXX.

“What is 5 Xs again?” Dorcas inquired. 

“Known Wizard-Killer,” Gideon responded. 

It was in a secluded, quieter corner of the room.

“Hokey,” Gideon said gently, kneeling by the cage. 

The house-elf, Hokey, was the smallest house-elf Dorcas had ever seen. She was reminded of the only two house-elves she knew; the Rackharrow’s servants, Tooey and Gimlet. Both were larger and far better cared for than this pathetic creature. 

Hokey turned her bulging eyes in Gideon’s direction. Dorcas moved closer and noticed that the lenses of the elf’s large eyes were clouded over with cataracts. She was more or less blind. Dorcas noticed an angry gash that split her brow and various bruises on the paper thin skin of Hokey’s arms and legs. Great iron cuffs around Hokey’s wrists made it difficult for the elf to lift her hands. Dorcas recognized these from her time assisting in criminal cases in America. These were Admonitors. They could be used to keep tabs on the magic that a wizard performed while wearing them, or they could keep one from performing magic altogether. 

Dorcas knelt on the filthy floor next to Gideon. Her healer instincts were to mend the physical wounds that were presented to her. But she had no wand and no potions. Not even a scrap of Muggle medicine. She mentally kicked herself. She could have smuggled in a little mercurochrome. 

“That gash looks nasty. She needs medical attention.” 

Gideon spoke as gently to Dorcas as he had to Hokey. “She receives care, I am assured. But these injuries... She does this to herself.” 

Dorcas wrung her hands in her lap, ineffectively. 

“Hokey,” Gideon addressed the elf again. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve brought a friend to visit you. This is Dorcas. She wanted to meet you.” 

Dorcas swallowed. “Hello, Hokey.” Her voice quavered. She struggled to keep her tone friendly but clinical. 

“Hello,” the tiny elf squeaked. Her milky eyes gazed in the direction of Dorcas’s voice. 

“Can you tell Dorcas why you are in this cage, Hokey?” Gideon prompted the house-elf. 

Hokey nodded, the movement afforded Dorcas a better look at other injuries to Hokey’s face and ears. She guessed the elf used the massive iron cuffs to beat herself around the forehead and the ears, and on her legs. 

“Hokey killed madam.” The house-elf’s eyes leaked and her voice hitched. “Hokey didn’t mean to do it. She made a mistake.” 

“We know it was an accident, Hokey. And we don’t blame you for madam’s death.” Gideon reached a hand into the cage and took her little fingers in his hand lightly. 

This struck Dorcas as an incredibly kind and tender gesture. But she soon realized that Gideon was keeping Hokey from using the Admonitor on her wrist as a weapon while she recounted her story. 

Gideon continued. “Your family doesn’t blame you either. You know that’s why I’m here. They’ve asked me to help you. They want you to be free so that you can come and live with them.” 

“Hokey doesn’t deserve her family. Hokey doesn’t deserve kindness. Hokey is a murderer. Hokey should be given clothes and dismissed.” 

Her arms shook as she said this. But she didn’t have the strength to lift her hands to punish herself. She coughed and Dorcas could hear fluid in her lungs. The sound worried her. 

“Gideon,” she began. 

He interrupted her. “I know.” He rushed on. “That’s not why we’re here, Dorcas.” There was a distinct note of distress in his voice. 

“Hokey,” Gideon continued, rubbing his thumb along the back of the tiny, papery hand. “Tell Dorcas what you can remember about the night your mistress died.” 

More tears leaked from Hokey’s eyes and she coughed again. “Hokey made madam her evening cocoa like she always does. Madam likes to have three spoonfuls of sugar in her cocoa. Hokey,” the house-elf coughed and shuddered. “Hokey made a mistake and switched the sugar. She put something else in instead of sugar. Hokey can’t see very well” 

Hokey’s eyes leaked more and she tried to move her hands again to punish herself. 

Dorcas opened the handbag that she’d placed beside her and pulled out a phail that she’d packed away to collect the elf’s memory. 

“Don’t you need a wand?” Gideon looked on with hopeful interest. 

“Sometimes, yes,” Dorcas explained, busying herself with the cork stopper. “But strong memories can be collected in this manner.” She demonstrated by extending her arm into the cage as Gideon had and holding the phial up to the thin skin of the elf’s cheek. She collected several tears easily and stoppered the glass bottle carefully. She took the handkerchief that Gideon had loaned her, forgotten in her lap until then, and wrapped the memory carefully, reverently in it. 

“Hokey,” Dorcas said more confidently. She was bolstered by the act of completing tasks familiar to her. She was back in her element. The smell, the earsplitting sonance, the cold stone, the grime faded away and she was left with a patient who needed help desperately. “Was there anyone in the house that night besides you and your mistress?” 

Hokey shook her head. “No one, ma’am.” 

“When was the last time you remember your mistress receiving a visitor?” Dorcas pushed, but she could see the house-elf’s already diminished strength flagging. 

“Two days before…” Her sobs renewed, she made a small movement with the hand that Gideon held. 

Dorcas persisted. She feared if she didn’t get the information from Hokey now, the little elf could very well perish before they’d had the chance to free her. 

“Can you remember who it was?” 

“A young man that mistress very much enjoyed the company of. He always brought her flowers,” Hokey squeaked. 

“We haven’t been able to track him down.” Gideon supplied. “Hokey doesn’t remember his name or the way the man looked.” 

“What did he want, Hokey?” Dorcas pressed. 

Hokey was tired. She feebly shook her head. 

“She doesn’t remember that either.” Gideon must have sensed that they wouldn’t get anything more out of her. “Hokey, you’ve done a very good job. I’m going to tell your family how well you’ve served me today. They will be very pleased.” 

“Hokey thanks sir.” 

Gideon stood and helped Dorcas to her feet. She followed Gideon out of the dark room full of cages, sparing a look back at Hokey. She seemed to be asleep on the little straw bed. 

“The house-elf needs tending to,” Gideon said firmly to the attendant who was returning their wands to them. “There is a gash above her eye that looks infected.” 

“We do mend her, sir,” the wizard argued blandly. “But she keeps opening the wounds back up.” 

“I didn’t ask for excuses,” Gideon countered testily, ripping his wand from the wizard’s hand. 

Dorcas took hers more graciously and stowed it in her handbag with the wrapped phial. She placed a hand on Gideon’s forearm and projected a calming feeling outward. Doing this always gave her a pang of longing for her Uncle Morty who has been her best friend and was so dearly missed. 

Gideon relaxed by degrees. He was not fully himself again until they were in the lift and soaring back down to the atrium. 

“Her family doesn’t want her in there. They want me to get her out. But the Ministry’s so damned prejudiced,” Gideon said loudly, raking a hand through his wavy strawberry blond hair. 

Dorcas tightened her grip on Gideon’s arm. Criticizing the Ministry loudly while standing inside the Ministry atrium was not wise. “Come on. Let’s get something to drink.” 

They exited the Ministry and found a pub not too far from the visitor’s entrance. 

Dorcas ordered two gin and tonics and sat across from Gideon, projecting another wave of calm for good measure. 

“The family must know how hard you’re working to get her out of there. They’d have to be fools or blind not to see how much you care.” 

Gideon’s answer was to drain his drink in one go. Dorcas slid hers across the table to him. 

“But I think your instincts are dead on when it comes to the Memory Charm.” Dorcas held her bag protectively in her lap, aware of the precious phial inside. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Gideon said and gulped down the second drink. “Enlighten me.” 

“He always brought her flowers.” 

Gideon blinked at her. 

“The young man that Hokey’s mistress was so fond of. He always brought her flowers, but Hokey can’t remember his name or what he looks like.” 

Gideon sat back in his seat and twirled the glass between his fingers on the tabletop. “Dorcas, you need to look at that memory as soon as you can. We need to appeal to the DRCMC for a dispensation to bring in wands and potions. You’ve got to use the Ex-Nebulae. We’ve gotta get that poor creature out of there.” 

Gideon was speaking quickly and loudly. Drawing attention from nearby drinkers. 

Dorcas exuded calm again, breathing in and out in tranquil waves. 

“Gideon, I don’t know if Hokey can handle the Ex-Nebulae Elixir. She’s in a very fragile state. To be frank, I don’t know how many weeks she’s got left. The pneumonia sounded bad. And she looks ancient.” 

Gideon’s eyes were glassy and he looked stricken but determined. “No, it’s going to work.” 

“I think the best we can hope for is an appeal for compassionate release.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

2 November 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas stood in the corner of a large and well-kept kitchen. She looked on in silence as Hokey bustled from stove to cupboard and then to the scrubbed wooden prep surface where a silver tray was laid with a linen napkin, china saucer and cup. She placed a pot of chocolate and a sugar bowl precisely on the tray, made a tiny adjustment for symmetry and then lifted it above her head. 

Hokey appeared elderly, in this memory, but still energetic and agile. She attested to this in the way she maneuvered around the vast space deftly, never bumping into furniture, never toppling crockery. Dorcas was left with the impression that Hokey was a competent and diligent servant to her mistress. 

Dorcas carefully noted every surface, every pot, every jar on the rack of spices to her left. She watched Hokey lay out her mistress’s tray, observed everything that the little elf touched. Dorcas was also aware of the light in the room, the smells of cooking, of chocolate, of wood burning in the grate of the fireplace to her right. She studied Hokey’s movements. She was looking for anything that suggested alteration. A memory that has been edited or tailored in any way left a mark. Dorcas had experienced these signs countless times in her profession. 

Whomever it was that was responsible for this amended memory. They were the most skilled wizard at memory charms that she’d ever encountered. Not a thing seemed out of place. 

This would be the sixth time that Dorcas had stood in the corner of Hepzibah Smith’s kitchen and watched her house-elf carry out her evening ritual of preparing and serving her mistress’s cocoa. 

As Hokey moved from the kitchen to the stairs, Dorcas noticed a change in air temperature. This was not out of the ordinary, not necessarily a sign of foul play. The kitchen was stifling with the fire and the oven and the boiling pots. Also, moving from the kitchen to the stairs, Dorcas detected a difference in scents. Drooping lilies with their cloying perfume sat on a table in a Ming vase across the hall from the kitchen’s entryway. Perhaps these were a gift from the mysterious visitor, moved out of sight as the blooms became dessicated. Dorcas could still smell the rich scent of the chocolate. Hokey was very close to where Dorcas stood. The chocolate pot was practically under Dorcas’s nose. And another scent, something woodsy. Perhaps the bannister and railings had recently been polished. 

The tray seemed to bob up the stairs on its own. The little elf was almost entirely hidden underneath it. Dorcas waited until Hokey was about five steps ahead of her on the stairs before pursuing at a slow pace. 

At the top of the stairs, Hokey turned right. They were in a large sitting room that was filled with boxes and display cases and glass-fronted cabinets; all filled with glittering treasures. To Dorcas, this place reminded her of a museum that had gotten carried away with its collections. Or, Dorcas thought to herself, very much like the vast room that she and Tom often hid away in at school. Entering behind Hokey, Dorcas could make out dazzling and rare collectibles. The main difference between this place and the mysterious room on the seventh floor of Hogwarts was this: the items in that hidden cavernous space had a decidedly abandoned and neglected air. These pieces were all meticulously maintained. Dorcas could not make out a scrap of dust or one tendril of a cobweb anywhere. 

An ample confection of a woman sat in a low chair, her pink robes flowing around her so as to obscure the chair’s appearance almost entirely. Her garish made up face was framed by a fuschia turban. 

Dorcas could tell that the woman was once very beautiful, but also got an instantaneous impression that she was also very vain. Dorcas guessed that it would not take much in the way of compliments and flattery to get what one wanted from her. Dorcas looked about the room. There was no shortage of unique and sought after items on display here. The room’s contents practically screamed motive for murder. 

On a gilded golden table at Hepzibah’s elbow sat a cut crystal vase (Waterford, maybe?) with a fresher bunch of flowers in them. A riotous pink bouquet of roses. Dorcas guessed that Hepzibah’s visitor had given these to her on his last visit. She remembered Hokey saying that visit was two days ago. There was not a hint of wilt or decay in these flowers, a contrast to the lilies downstairs. 

Here, Dorcas noted that the light was dim. A few gas lamps and an immense glass chandelier above gave off a soft, flickering glow. Dorcas guessed it was Ms. Smith’s way of showing off her trinkets to greatest effect. A lot of highly polished gold and silver shimmered from all around them. The air was thinner and cooler here than in the steamy, smoky kitchen. 

Dorcas could still smell the chocolate, a very sickening powdery perfume coming from Hepzibah Smith, and the piney scent identical to that in the stairway below. Dorcas looked around the room again. A lot of wooden cabinets and display tables to be polished. Every smell, every sound, every shadow and source of light seemed accounted for. 

Hokey held the tray over her head, level with Hepzibah’s right elbow. The elf was a perfect imitation of the spindly table holding the roses. Neither of them moved a centimeter. 

Before Hepzibah could reach for the pot of chocolate, Dorcas noticed it. 

In her first five visits to this memory, she’d carefully inventoried the sights, smells, sounds, and movements around her. She hadn’t noticed this before. 

The sugar dish was slightly out of alignment now. 

Dorcas had watched Hokey place the items so precisely, so carefully. The cup and saucer, the chocolate pot, the sugar bowl made a perfect right triangle on the cloth napkin. Now, with the sugar bowl pulled out of the pattern slightly, the triangle was obtuse. 

Just as she’d explained to Gideon yesterday at the pub, she was as sure as he had been about Hokey’s memory being tampered with. The statement regarding the flowers was confirmation of this. 

Now Dorcas was convinced beyond a doubt. If Hokey had been a healthy human adult patient of hers, she would not hesitate to use the elixir on her and uncover the truth. But Hokey was old and frail, she was sick and probably very close to death. The potion and the process used to peel back a memory that had been superimposed over another one sapped a lot of energy and strength from the patient. It was clear in visiting Hokey yesterday that the poor elf had neither of these in large measure. 

Unsure what to do with the knowledge that she’d uncovered, she did not wait for the rest of the memory to play out. Instead, she looked up and returned to the surface of the Pensieve and back to her office. 

:::

4 February 1940 Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas was no longer avoiding her prized study corner in the library. She’d decided that Tom could dodge her if he’d prefer not to talk about what happened in Hogsmeade more than a week ago now, but she would no longer stew in it. 

She had spent the balance of her weekend reading and rereading the book Cal had found in the little bookshop on the high street. Cal had turned up for an hour to help her follow up on some leads, like the name of the Head Healer she’d made note of. Nothing on that front, he’d left the hospital for a promotion at St. Mungo’s (Head of the Spell Damages ward). 

Cal had limited time to devote to assisting Dorcas, even though his interest seemed boundless. With the upcoming match against Hufflepuff, the Gryffindor team was monopolizing free time and the practice pitch, sleet and snow be damned. 

Dorcas had laughed off Cal’s invitation to watch this afternoon’s practice. There was no chance she would sit in the freezing wind to watch the Gryffindor captain, Stafford Carson, yell at his teammates for two hours. 

She closed the book and laid it on the tabletop in front of her, about to push her chair back and head to the periodicals to see if she could find anything on the 1926 fire at Wingate. 

Dorcas was startled when something wooly and dark blue fell onto the tabletop and covered her book. 

Her scarf. The one she’d lost in Hogsmeade was deposited in front of her. Dorcas spun in her chair to see who’d found it. 

“You dropped it in the bookshop,” Tom said in answer to her unspoken question. He took the seat next to her casually, as if he hadn’t just spent a week hiding from her. 

“So you’re talking to me again?” Dorcas picked up the scarf and tucked it into her bag. 

Tom’s brow furrowed. “I wasn’t ignoring you.” 

“Right,” Dorcas responded, unconvinced. She pushed away from the table and walked the three shelves behind them to where the large sheets of newsprint were pasted into tall bound books marked with the publication’s title and dates. 

Dorcas returned with three volumes of the Daily Prophet all dating from the Fall of 1926. The books were large and cumbersome. Tom darted out of his seat to take them from her. 

“What are you researching now?” he asked with interest. Laying the books out between Dorcas and himself, he scanned the first few pages of the one on top. 

She slid the thin book about Wingate over to him wordlessly as she arranged the newsprint volumes in chronological order. She silently scanned through page after page. She could hear Tom turning pages beside her, reading about the horrible hospital that had become a bit of an obsession for her. 

“This is properly creepy, isn’t it?” he commented, finally. 

“Yeah,” Dorcas conceded. 

Tom closed the book with an audible snap. “Birdie,” he said. There was a faint imploring note to his voice. 

Dorcas sensed that he was trying to put things right between them. But, stubbornly, she didn’t want to make it easy for him to do so. 

“Birdie, look at me,” he commanded. 

Dorcas closed her large periodical with a much louder bang and leveled her best attempt at an indifferent stare in his direction. 

Tom looked around, clearly unsettled by the sound that Dorcas’s book had made. He didn’t want to draw attention to them. When he was satisfied that there were no eyes looking in their direction, he continued. 

“I’m sorry,” Tom apologized, his voice low. 

Dorcas blinked, but didn’t respond. 

Tom paused, waiting for a word from Dorcas. When he realized that she was not going to speak, he carried on in a voice that was almost a whisper. 

“I apologize for getting carried away. Had I known that you were with someone, I--”

Dorcas cut him off. He wasn’t making any sense to her. 

“With someone?” Her brow creased in confusion. 

“I realize now that you are with Caleb Meadowes,” he rushed to explain. “But I didn’t know that when I--”

Dorcas interrupted again. “What are you talking about?” 

“I’ve seen you two together, holding hands, sneaking around, spending time together. I didn’t know it when I kissed you, though.” 

Dorcas blushed. She did not realize that was what she and Cal looked like to a casual observer. 

“We’re not together,” Dorcas said with certainty. “We’re friends.” 

“You two don’t act like friends,” Tom argued. 

Was he jealous? She couldn’t tell. She was woefully inexperienced in the way the male mind functioned. Dorcas was aghast at this version of Tom that was sitting in front of her. Where was his confidence, his self-assured bearing? It was unnerving to her. 

Dorcas took a steadying breath. She tried to organize an explanation in her mind, still not sure why he’d been so irked by her that he’d ignored her for a week. 

“Tom,” she explained carefully. “ _ We _ hold hands,  _ we _ sneak around,  _ we _ spend time together.” She turned his own words back on him to show him how silly they sounded. “Does that make  _ us _ a couple?”

Only just then, she was reminded of Cherry’s inquiry into her and Tom’s relationship status. She could see now what Cherry was talking about. 

Tom didn’t answer. 

“Does it bother you that I spend time with Cal?” 

She could see a muscle working in his jaw, like he was grinding his teeth. 

Dorcas sat back in her chair and stared at her friend. She was bewildered by him. 

Neither one spoke for a moment. The last question hung in the air unanswered. 

“Can we just go back to being friends again?” Tom asked. His tone was beseeching. “I’ve missed you.” 

Dorcas couldn’t help but smile. The strange tension between them broken, she nodded in agreement of the truce. 

“I’ve missed you too, Tom.” 

“Meet me tonight. Barnabas the Barmy.” Tom said this quickly and retreated from the library without waiting for a response from Dorcas. 

:::

2 November 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas was in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee and musing over Hokey’s memory. 

“Coffee, Theresa?” Dorcas called into the sitting room. 

“Yes, please,” came the response. 

Dorcas took another cup and saucer from the drainboard and filled it. She put the same amount of milk and sugar in as her own. If she asked Theresa how she took it, Theresa would just respond with a shrug and say, “Oh, however you make it.” 

They’d done this song and dance enough that Dorcas didn’t ask anymore. 

Today was one of those blissfully rare days when her schedule was clear and she got to be at home with Wren. Even rarer still, were the days when Cal’s schedule was open as well. She contemplated an outing later, maybe to the park. Just the three of them. It was still mild outside for November. 

She sat on the couch and handed Theresa her coffee. 

“Thanks,” Theresa said. 

She was ensconced on the sitting room rug with Billy and Wren, building an elaborate castle out of blocks. The two children were monsters waiting in the wings for the signal from Theresa. Then they would rampage around with gnashing teeth and fists of destruction. The castle’s inhabitants were in mortal danger. 

Theresa and Billy had become a welcome fixture of the Meadowes home now. 

Unwilling to return to her own home after Steven’s deception was uncovered, Theresa and Billy had taken up residence in Ryann’s room permanently. 

This was just as well. With Ryann at Hogwarts now, she would occupy that bedroom for less than three months out of the year. 

Dorcas had come to depend on Theresa as her schedule was busier than ever after news of the custody hearing had caught on, she and Cal had become minor celebrities because of their memory elixir. 

Capitalizing on the opportunity, St. Mungo’s was planning a promotional piece in the papers soon for the Blood Replenishing Potion, despite their protests. St. Mungo’s was always looking for an angle that donors could get enthusiastic about. Unfortunately, for Dorcas and Cal, their successes were highly marketable. 

Theresa had become the unofficial nanny of the busy household. 

“How is it going with the house-elf’s memories?” Theresa asked, sipping her coffee with one hand, finishing off a turret with the other. 

“I think I’m convinced that her memory has been altered,” Dorcas responded, pausing with her cup to her lips to blow the steam away. “But what do I do with it?” She shrugged dejectedly. 

Theresa placed the final piece of crenelation and unleashed the monsters. Placing her free hand over her face to shield her from any errant building blocks. 

“I can’t believe someone would lock up a house-elf. Even if it was for murder,” Theresa said with a sympathetic shake of her head. 

A knock on the door nearly upset Dorcas’s coffee in her hands. 

Theresa stood up before Dorcas could even set her cup aside. “I’ll get it!”

Dorcas recognized the voice right away as Theresa greeted the visitor. 

“Gideon.” Dorcas welcomed him as Theresa took his coat. “Has something happened with Hokey.” 

Gideon’s expression was one of anxiety mingled with hopeful excitement.

“Yes,” he answered, removing his hat. He handed it to Theresa with a warm smile. 

“Come in,” Dorcas waved to the building-block-strewn sitting room. She would probably never be able to pull off the poise and spotlessness of a proper housewife. So she’d given up the pretense long ago. 

When Theresa had ushered Billy and Wren from the room and returned with coffee for Gideon, he recounted the message that he’d just received. 

“The head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has granted us a hearing.” He spoke hurriedly. “It’s at four o’clock this afternoon. I explained to him that Hokey was evaluated by a specialist yesterday and that the recommendation was for compassionate release.” 

He paused and took a sip of his coffee. 

Dorcas would have commented on the liberties Gideon had taken with the facts of yesterday’s meeting, but kept silent. This case had become important to her, as it was to Gideon. 

“He wants to speak to the specialist himself. He said he’s inclined to grant the request if you can satisfy some questions for him, Dorcas.” 

She was on the edge of her seat. She checked her watch. The meeting was in forty-five minutes. 

“I’ll tell him whatever I can to get the poor creature out of there,” Dorcas said. “Why is he so ready to change his mind?” 

Gideon’s face fell a bit. “He says the house-elf’s health is failing. If he can be reassured that she is not a threat, he will release her to her family.” 

“Do you think they’ll allow a Healer to see her?” Dorcas thought about the livid gash on Hokey’s head and the worrying rattle in her chest. Dorcas’s skills lay in treating the mind, but she also happened to know the most talented healer this side of the Atlantic when it came to the ailments of the body. 

“Maybe,” Gideon shrugged. “Let’s be prepared for both outcomes. Bring anything you think will help Hokey. If they release her, you can treat her at her home. If they do not,” Gideon shook his head. “Then, I’ll fight like hell to make them admit you with your wand.” 

Dorcas nodded her agreement to the plan. 

Gideon set his coffee down, barely touched. He looked at his watch. 

“I need to see the Smiths. They’ll want to know about all of this.” 

Dorcas stood. “Go. I’ll get packed up and meet you at the Ministry. Theresa will see you out.” 

Dorcas left Gideon and Theresa at the entryway and took the stairs down to the basement laboratory with her gray handbag that complimented yesterday’s outfit over one arm. 

“I need your help with something, Cal,” Dorcas called as she descended. 

Cal was listening to Miles Davis on the Hi-Fi, sitting at his desk in the corner, pouring over his own handwritten notes. She found the sight of Cal hard at work incredibly attractive. She wasn’t sure how they ever got anything done down here. Dorcas savored the picture for a moment. 

“Cal,” she called again, breaking the spell. 

He looked up and pointed his wand at the record player. The music dimmed. 

“Did you say something?” he asked, setting aside his work. 

Dorcas crossed the space so that she could talk at a normal volume. 

“I need your help with something,” Dorcas repeated, moving to the cabinet opposite his desk and began pulling potions out. She placed anything she thought might be helpful in her bag. 

“Anything, my love,” Cal said simply. He noticed the bottles that she was packing up and came to stand beside her. “What’s the matter, Clerey?” 

“The house-elf I told you about last night?”

Cal nodded, remembering Dorcas’s recounting of her trip to the Ministry. 

“Gideon and I may be able to get her released. But she’s in bad shape,” Dorcas said. She paused to mutter a cushioning charm into her bag. “Will you come with us?”

“Of course I will,” Cal said without hesitation. He grabbed two potions that Dorcas had missed. “Take this and this one too,” he said, handing them to her. 

Dorcas packed them away and climbed the stairs again. Cal, unbuttoning his lab coat and replacing it with the jacket on the hook by the door, followed his wife out. 

:::

4-5, February 1940 Seventh Floor Corridor Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas crept along the corridor, hugging the stone wall. She felt utterly conspicuous and alone. Every sound heightened her conviction that she would be found out of bounds by a teacher and punished. She realized that she only rarely thought about getting caught or lost in the maze-like halls of the school because she was usually with Tom. Usually distracted by Tom; her mind on a new place he was taking her to, or asking questions about various topics. 

“Birdie,” she heard his voice before she saw him in the dim light that a far away window provided. 

She instantly felt relief. She’d found the right place in the dark on her own. She was getting better at navigating the school in blackness unaccompanied. It was empowering. 

Tom was pushing the heavy wooden door aside and waving her into the secret room. 

The space was just as cavernous, just as cluttered as when she’d last seen it two months ago. 

“I’m surprised you came,” Tom admitted, pleased. 

They walked through the pathways of abandoned belongings and broken furniture, Tom leading and Dorcas following because there was only enough space to walk single file. 

Dorcas didn’t understand why Tom was surprised. Hadn’t they patched things up in the library earlier today? She voiced this to Tom. 

“It’s Monday night,” Tom shrugged with his hands in his pockets. “You usually have a rule against that, don’t you?” 

Dorcas could have slapped her forehead. She would have to get back to bed in a couple of hours if she didn’t want to be completely knackered for classes tomorrow. She vowed to stay only long enough for Tom to show her what he wanted or to say whatever it was that he had to say. 

“Birdie,” Tom read her silence easily. “You worry too much.” 

She stared at his back as they walked. Tonight he was wearing his black school trousers and uniform dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Dorcas didn’t know how he could do it. How could he walk around in the drafty castle in the dead of winter looking like he was on a summer stroll in the park?

She had changed from her uniform (that should have been her first clue that she was breaking her rule about being out of bed on a school night), instead, opting for her usual warm wool skirt, wool knee socks, and jumper. She had begun to think of it as her prowling around uniform. 

They came to a halt beside a little den. An assortment of furniture had been piled together to create a cave, a tangle of quilts and pillows spread over the floor inside. There was an upturned crate, a candle on a tarnished brass stand, and a collection of books. 

“Sometimes, I just come here and read if you’re not with me, or if I don’t feel like wandering on my own.” He looked at Dorcas as she surveyed the structure. She realized that he was waiting for her opinion. 

She smiled and crawled inside. It felt very homey. 

“This is excellent, Tom!” she said, sitting on a large cushion and tucking her feet under her. 

It reminded her of the types of enclosures that Dorcas and her Uncle Morty used to build for his animals that he collected in the tiny garden behind their building. They would use all manner of rubbish they could find in the alley, old pallets, dustbin lids, cardboard. Only, this space had the added benefit of no mice or frogs. 

“What did I tell you about raising your expectations?” Tom asked her as he climbed in behind her. 

She laughed and laid back on the squashy pile of torn blankets and faded quilts. “I really think it’s excellent.” 

Dorcas popped up onto one elbow and looked at the little pile of books next to the candle. Just then, Tom took the candle and lit its wick. She could see the titles better by the small flickering light. 

One title caught her attention before all others. “Hey!” she admonished. “You dirty thief!” She held up the copy of  _ ‘A Thousand and One Nights’ _ . “You stole this from that house!”

Tom shrugged and laid back on a pile of cushions. “I wasn’t finished with it,” he countered, folding his arms behind his head for support, unperturbed by her name calling. 

Dorcas flipped through the pages of the familiar book as she lay on her side. 

“Tom?” Dorcas asked. 

He laughed. 

They were both reminded of the conversation that they’d had laying in the Great Hall, staring up at the enchanted ceiling, when Tom had pointed out to her that she always said his name with a certain tone before she was about to ask him something that had been on her mind. 

She laughed too. 

“Ask your question,” he finally said. “I’ll answer it.” 

Dorcas laid back again. She felt that she couldn’t be direct when she was looking at him, even if it was by the dim flame of a candle. She focused her gaze on the cobbled-together-furniture ceiling instead. 

“The kiss from last week,” Dorcas began. 

“Okay,” Tom said with a sigh. “We’re going there.” 

“Well, if you’d rather not talk about it,” Dorcas said, her courage waning. “I just think we should discuss what happened instead of sweeping it under the rug.” 

“You’re right,” Tom said after a long pause. “If we’re friends, we should be able to talk about anything. I don’t want you to feel guarded around me.”

Dorcas turned her head in his direction and looked at him. She felt so similarly about their relationship. The truest friends could say anything to one another without fear or evasion. 

“I don’t want you to feel guarded around me,” she echoed. 

He extended a hand to her and she took it gratefully. The rift hadn’t been completely repaired, but there was progress in that direction. 

“So,” Tom continued. “What do you want to ask me?” 

“Why did you kiss me? What made you do it?” 

“It’s not like I planned to do it, Birdie,” Tom replied. “It was spontaneous. I felt incredibly drawn to you, close to you at that particular moment.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Dorcas said. 

She felt the tense muscles of his arm relax as if relieved that he’s given the correct answer to an exam question. She squeezed his fingers. 

“I’m not done,” Dorcas continued. 

“Heavens,” Tom sighed dramatically. “Opening up is exhausting.” 

Dorcas wanted to lay it all out so that she could understand what was between them. She refused to be put off by Tom any longer. 

“That explains the first kiss. But what about the one after?” 

“I don’t see them as being separate from one another. I saw the second as a continuation of the first one, the first impulse. I’ve never been as close to anyone as I was to you that night. Never looked into someone else’s eyes and felt as recognized by that person as I was by you. And then, you touched me. For a moment, I lost control of the situation, of myself.” He shook his head against the cushions. “That probably doesn’t make sense to you.” 

“I understand. I just thought that I’d done something to put you off. You jumped up so quickly and then you didn’t talk to me all the way back to school. I thought I did something wrong.” 

He was smiling up at the ceiling of the little cave. Dorcas could make out his profile in the candlelight. 

“No, Birdie. You did everything  _ right _ ,” Tom said finally. He sat up quickly and leveled a very earnest gaze at her. “But I want you to know that I won’t take liberties like that again. It’s important that you know that.” 

“I trust you, Tom,” Dorcas said. She meant this. She felt at ease with him. She knew that he would keep her secrets. She knew she was safe with him. She hoped he felt the same way.

A weight had been lifted from around her neck. She knew that she’d almost shied away from even mentioning the kiss. But she was glad she did. A moment’s embarrassment and vulnerability had gained her a better understanding of her friend and what his thoughts and feelings were. And also, what her own misgivings had been. 

She shivered as a draft circulated into the tiny space. She adjusted her skirt around her knees. 

“Here, Birdie,” Tom took one of the many blankets lining the floor of the cave and arranged it over her. 

“Can I request something from you now?” He asked after tucking the blanket around her. 

She owed him answers too, she supposed. She nodded and brushed some hair out of her face. 

“Will you practice with me again? Practice seeing thoughts?” 

Dorcas considered how they went about this the last time they’d tried it. Their actions had led down a path in which they did not speak to each other for a week. Dorcas wanted to protest, but she also knew that fair was fair. Tom had opened up to her when she’d asked him to. She needed to do the same. 

“Tom, I’ll do my best. But I’m clearly no good at helping you with this.” 

He shook his head, disagreeing with her. “You’re wrong. We haven’t been at it for that long. I wasn’t born with your gift. It’s going to take me a lot more time. It won’t be easy. I’m willing to put in the work.” 

Dorcas considered this. He was probably right. She did believe that most things could be learned with enough application and practice. Why should this be any different? 

“Why do you want to do this so badly, Tom?” Dorcas said. “I don’t think of it as a blessing. I see it as a curse.” 

“It’s not a curse, Birdie,” Tom said adamantly. “I’m going to learn it too!”

“Why, Tom? You’re plenty smart. Probably the smartest boy in school.”

Tom pulled his knees to his chest as he sat and looked at her laying under the blanket just inches from him. Dorcas noticed that this was a rather guarded posture to take. He was uncomfortable sharing his motives with her. 

He folded his arms over his knees and rested his chin on them. 

“I’ve been in the orphanage as long as I can remember. The kids in there, we don’t have any future ahead of us. All doors are closed to us. Absolutely no one is handing out opportunities in that place. Then Dumbledore came when I was eleven and one door swung wide open for me. I promised myself then that I was going to seize every opportunity that I could at this school. I am aware how incredibly lucky I am to get to come here. The only one in that horrible place who gets a shot at a better life. I’m not going to squander it. I want to know everything.” 

Dorcas was struck with the force of his conviction. She wanted to help him. She was more determined now that she understood his drive to know more. 

A memory came to her. “The image I saw of the burning wardrobe. And Professor Dumbledore?” 

“Yes, that’s the one. He was trying to make a point.” 

Dorcas wondered what that point was. The professor was indeed an eccentric man. But she didn’t ask. 

“Okay,” Dorcas sat up. “I don’t have to stare at someone in order to hear what they’re thinking. So, I’ll go out there a little way and try to pick something out of your mind.” 

She was reinvigorated by Tom’s life mission statement. He became energized too. 

“No,” he said, pushing her back as she tried to stand. “I’ll go out there. It’s warmer in here and you’re cold.” 

He strode out of the furniture cave, but ducked back in moments later. “Don’t pick up on obvious things. Try to get something obscure.” 

“I’ll try,” Dorcas said, sitting up and rearranging the blanket over her legs that had shifted when Tom departed. 

“Are you doing it, Birdie?” she heard him say. She knew it was in her mind and not spoken out loud. 

Dorcas concentrated on an image of her friend in her mind. She imagined being able to flip through thoughts the way that one could flip through the pages of a book. A reference book that contained a multitude of images and names and phrases and sounds. She saw the memory of Dumbledore and Tom and the wardrobe, but continued flipping. 

Her mind’s eye alighted on another image. A landscape: angry, swirling water and a craggy, stark cliff face off in the distance, a dark cave’s mouth. She was now seeing it up close through Tom’s eyes, she was entering into its cavernous darkness. She flipped the page again. Tom was wandering through Piccadilly, the lights and the noise and the people closed in on her. She heard a woman’s voice. Saw the faces of children she didn’t recognize. One child, she did find a name for. A small red headed girl with freckles. Amy Benson. She could keep going like this indefinitely. She was absolutely confident in that fact. 

She felt frustrated. She didn’t need to get better at this. She didn’t want to be better at it. But how was she going to be able to pass this ability on to Tom? How would she be able to guide him correctly? 

‘Did you do it, Birdie?” Tom asked, peeking back under the furniture cave’s opening. 

“Yes,” Dorcas said. She waited for him to take a seat next to her and he listened intently. 

“I pictured you,” Dorcas began slowly, striving to recount every detail exactly for him. 

Tom nodded eagerly. He leaned forward in anticipation. 

“I saw your mind as a sort of large reference book with thousands of pages, perhaps millions. I pictured flipping through image after image. Some were scenes, other pages were just sounds, or phrases, or names. I could sense every one of them clearly. I didn’t rest on anything long.” 

As she said the last part, she looked directly at him. She wanted him to know that she would also not take liberties with her ability to peruse his mind. 

“Okay,” Tom said with a succinct nod. “I’m not going to try to look into your mind from a distance. I don’t think I could do that just yet.” He raked his hand through his hair. “But someday.”

He said the last part so hopefully that Dorcas began to want that for him as much as he wanted it for himself. 

“Close your eyes,” Tom said. 

Dorcas settled against her cushions and blankets and did as Tom asked. It was so quiet in the vast space of the secret room, she could only hear her own breath mingling with the sound of Tom’s. She could have fallen asleep right there. 

Maybe she had fallen asleep for a moment or two. 

“Damn,” Tom swore. 

Dorcas’s eyes fluttered open with the sound of his voice and she sat up as he collapsed back on his cushions in futility. 

“Nothing?” Dorcas already knew the answer. She felt crestfallen and so inadequate as a teacher. But she knew she would continue to help Tom as often as he wanted. 

“Maybe next time,” she said, more cheerfully than she felt. “You’re going to get the hang of it.” 

Tom did not respond. Instead, he played with the frayed corner of a pillow. 

Dorcas yawned, reminding herself that she needed to get back to her bed. “Time for me to go. It’s late and I’ll be no good in class tomorrow.” She crouched and ducked out of the cave.

She instantly felt chilled in the vast space outside of the warm little den. 

“Wait, Birdie,” Tom said in a dejected tone. “I’ll walk you back.” 

He blew out the flame of the little candle and was momentarily shrouded in dark before Dorcas pulled out her wand and lit their path. 

At the door of the secret room, Dorcas turned to Tom wanting to say something to him, wanting him to know that she would keep helping him. 

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Dorcas encouraged. “I have faith in you.” 

Tom smiled at her and took her hand. He pulled her out into the corridor and toward the stairs. 

After a few moments, she could feel his mood changing. He began to whistle. 

‘Beer Barrel Polka’. The Andrews Sisters. Tom had once said it was his favorite of the songs Dorcas hummed when they studied in the library. 

Dorcas hummed along. They made a passable rendition considering they were only two voices, instead of a trio. 

:::

2 November 1957 Ministry of Magic Atrium, London

Dorcas and Cal crossed the Ministry atrium, Dorcas’s bag full of healing potions, Cal’s hand in hers. She was going over any and all arguments in her mind that she could use to convince the head of the DRCMC to release Hokey. 

Gideon was waiting by the lifts where Dorcas met him yesterday. He had a man with him. They wore twin expressions of anxiety and hopefulness. But that’s where the resemblance stopped. Where Gideon was tall and broad shouldered, the other man was shorter and slight of build. Dorcas thought he’d make a good Seeker with that frame. His hair was blond where Gideon’s was shot through with copper. He also appeared slightly younger. 

This must be Hepzibah Smith’s relation. But the resemblance between him and the memory of Ms. Smith offered more contrast even than that between him and Gideon. 

The pair walked toward Cal and Dorcas as they approached. 

Gideon held out a hand. “Dr. Meadowes, thank you for making the time on short notice.” 

“Of course!” Dorcas responded, releasing her husband’s hand to take Gideon’s. “This is my husband, Cal. He’s a Healer and far better qualified to treat Hokey’s illness than I am.” 

Gideon’s eyes shifted to Cal, more hopeful still. “Healer Meadowes. I am grateful you could come.” He shook Cal’s hand. 

“This is Thaddeus Smith,” Gideon introduced. “Hepzibah Smith’s nephew and heir. He’s hired me to get Hokey released.” 

Introductions made and handshakes exchanged, the party took the nearest lift to the fourth floor. 

Dorcas felt the apprehension mounting as the grate of the lift opened and she was once more in that stark hallway that was the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 

Instead of traversing the entire length of the corridor, they stopped at the second door they came to. This was the door marked BEING DIVISION. 

Gideon ushered them all into the small antechamber. There were benches arranged against the walls and a reception desk in front of a corridor of offices with the same institutional doors as the one they had just entered. Dorcas surveyed the space and thought that it might serve as a Hollywood set for a police department in a Muggle detective film. This thought distracted her and made her smile. In a way, they were all playing parts in a detective film, were they not? 

Gideon crossed the small waiting room to the witch behind the reception desk. She struck Dorcas as having features rather similar to the Hogwarts Librarian, Miss Poole. Although Dorcas supposed, Miss Poole would be considerably older than the witch that Gideon spoke to now. 

“Come with me,” the woman said in a bland tone. 

Gideon motioned to Dorcas, who stepped forward. 

She and Gideon followed the receptionist behind her desk and down the hallway, leaving Cal and Thaddeus in conversation in the waiting area. 

They did not stop until they’d reached the very end of the row of doors. 

The receptionist paused to rap lightly on the frosted pane of glass that was labeled ROMAN FLINT HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT FOR THE REGULATION AND CONTROL OF MAGICAL CREATURES. 

Dorcas was surprised to read the name. Roman was an old schoolmate. Perhaps this could work in their favor? 

Dorcas imagined that she would be meeting with some old wizard with a sallow complexion and sunken cheeks. A real villain of a character. 

Roman was not that character at all. 

Dorcas remembered a round faced boy with light brown hair. He was the sort of boy that you could describe as average in every way. Dorcas tried to recall his specific features and found that she did not have a precise memory of them. She couldn’t even remember what year he’d been in. 

The memories of a memory therapist were failing, she thought ruefully. 

The man sitting behind the desk was no villain, Dorcas had confirmed. He was a bureaucrat through and through. A man in the middle of the pecking order, hoping to put more people in subordination to him and fewer people in positions above himself. 

He looked up at the three, smiling as they entered the room. 

“Mrs. Meadowes,” he said. “Counselor Prewett. I’ve been expecting you.” He stood to shake hands. 

“It’s Dr. Meadowes,” Gideon was quick to correct Flint. 

Dorcas was beginning to get the measure of the man. She’d met his trope more times than she’d care to recount. He was the type of fragile wizard ego who was twofold unsettled by Dorcas’s achievements. Offense number one: a woman in a position of expertise. Offense number two: a position of Muggle mingled with Magical expertise. The combination was threatening to this type of man. 

“Ah yes,” Flint conceded, but could not bring himself to voice the correction. 

“Thank you Metis, sweetheart,” he said to the receptionist. 

Oh Roman, Dorcas thought. Fragile wizard ego was one thing, but carrying on with your secretary? How pedestrian. Her eyes went directly to the gold band on the ring finger of his left hand. He kept sinking lower in Dorcas’s estimation at every word he uttered. 

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to two chairs opposite him as he took his own seat again. 

“So,” Flint continued once Dorcas and Gideon had seated themselves. 

Dorcas was on the edge of her seat. 

“Counselor Prewett has told me that you believe the house-elf to be innocent. That you’ve investigated its memories and found them to be altered. This would mean, I assume, that Ms. Smith’s real killer is still on the loose and the poor elf is wrongfully imprisoned?” 

Flint steepled his fingers and leveled a challenging gaze at Dorcas. 

She was not fazed by the patronizing tone or the stare. It was Roman’s mistake to believe that Dorcas would be intimidated by him. 

“We are not contesting the elf’s guilt,” Gideon answered. “She confessed, and she’s old and poorly. We’re just here to negotiate her release to her family.”

“She is no danger,” Dorcas added. “She  _ mistakenly _ killed her mistress. The family will give assurances that she’s not going to be employed as a servant. They just want to ensure that her final days or weeks are peaceful and happy.” 

“Is it your professional opinion that killers deserve happiness?” Flint asked, emphasizing the word professional. 

“If the killing was accidental, as is the case here.” She leveled a coolly defiant stare at Flint. 

“Well,” Flint said, backing down. “As you say, it probably has days or weeks at best.” He signed a piece of paper and waved it at Gideon, who rushed to grab it. “Present that to the guard in Containment. He’ll see to the elf’s release.” 

Dorcas and Gideon stood. With the requisite signed release form obtained, there was no need to continue the conversation. 

“Dorcas,” Flint said, standing to show them out. The use of her Christian name surprised her a little. “A moment, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Gideon paused and looked at her. She knew that he would be ready to make an excuse as to why they both needed to leave the office together. But she was not afraid of Flint. She nodded for Gideon to continue with the task of freeing Hokey. 

“Give this to Cal,” she said, handing him her gray handbag full of potions and tonics. 

Gideon took the papers freeing the elf and the bag and left. 

Flint shut the door once more. 

Dorcas perched herself on the edge of the chair. “What is it, Roman?” She asked, using his given name as well. 

He sat and leaned back in his chair. This annoyed Dorcas. He knew that she didn’t have the time for a leisurely stroll down memory lane. The memories that they shared between them being so scant as to make that lane comically short. 

“I’m curious about the work you’re doing with the elf.” 

Dorcas did not speak. 

“It’s very interesting to me that you can investigate memories and recover lost or edited ones.” 

“Just professional curiosity, is it?” Dorcas asked, a note of suspicion in her voice. 

Roman shrugged, but remained in a posture of complete ease. “I’ve read the papers like everyone else.” 

“Then, like everyone else, you know the gist of it.” She straightened her gloves impatiently. 

“Will it work on the elf?” Roman pressed her. 

Dorcas did not often break her rule about pushing in on the thoughts of others. But she was distinctly aware of the casual posture and tone that Flint employed. It read, professional curiosity, but the subtext was coiled anticipation. 

She cast her mind outward and felt his consciousness. It took nothing to breach his walls. She saw that it was not Flint’s own compassion for the house-elf that had secured her release, nor was it anything she’d said. The missive that had resulted in Hokey’s imminent release was from the Minister himself. Powerful people were involved in this little case of misplaced guilt. What exactly had Dorcas stumbled upon? Unfortunately, with Hokey in such a frail state, she (and those pulling the strings) may never know the answer to that. 

She wouldn’t say as much to Flint. “I won’t even try it.” 

The simple statement seemed to bring about a change in demeanor. Roman’s hands dropped to the armrests of his chair and his back straightened. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or unsettled by the declaration. 

“Not even to bring a  _ real _ killer to justice?” The way he emphasized real communicated to Dorcas an intentional message. There was no mysterious memory-altering killer on the loose, only a doddering house-elf with bad eyesight. 

“No.” Dorcas began to suspect that this news pleased Flint. “She would not survive the procedure.” 

Flint was giving himself away. He sat forward. “No, you’re probably right. Best not try it on the poor thing.” He oozed the kind of care and sympathy that his words had been lacking up to this point. 

“Well,” Dorcas said, standing and ending the charade of pleasant conversation. “I’d better go and help my patient. Thank you for securing her release. I am grateful, as I am sure that her family is.” 

Roman stood as well and crossed to the door, opening it for her. He didn’t speak, but Dorcas heard his thoughts all the same. 

“Bleeding crusaders.” 

Dorcas nodded goodbye with a pleasant smile and walked out to reception. Gideon was waiting for her there. 

“That was enlightening,” Dorcas said cryptically. “How’s Hokey?” 

Gideon placed a hand on her back and guided her out of the Being Division and back to the lifts. “She’s not any better, but I don’t think she’s any worse. Thaddeus and your husband have already taken her to the Smith’s home. We’re meeting them there.” 

:::

When Dorcas and Gideon arrived at the large Chiswick townhome that had once belonged to Hepzibah Smith, an affable blond woman ushered them up two flights of stairs and into a well appointed bedroom. 

Dorcas saw the diminutive Hokey lying under a crisp white sheet. The elf’s skin was almost the same color and texture as the bed linens themselves. 

The blond woman crossed the room to take Thaddeus’s hand as he stood out of the way by a window. His wife, perhaps, Dorcas guessed. 

Cal was standing over the elf, her tiny wrist held gently between his fingers, the heavy Admonitor cuffs still present. Cal was studying his watch as he monitored the elf’s pulse. 

Dorcas went to stand next to Cal and Gideon to the other side of the bed. She did not interrupt, but waited for Cal to update her when he was finished. 

“I’ve given her a sedative. She became agitated when she saw Thaddeus.” Dorcas spared a brief glance behind her and saw a careworn and guilty expression on the young man’s face. “The cuts and bruises have been mended. There was a weeks-old fracture in her left arm that’s been repaired. As for the pneumonia, we’ll have to give the potions time to do their magic.” 

“And what about retrieving the memory?” Gideon asked, not in an unfeeling way, but hurried nonetheless. 

“Out of the question,” Cal responded with finality. Dorcas knew that he would not hear of adding stress to the elf’s already taxed body and mind. 

“Gideon, I explained it to you yesterday. We may not ever be able to identify the man who killed Ms. Smith. Hokey wouldn’t survive it.” 

As Gideon opened his mouth to argue with her, Dorcas added, “I didn’t even bring any of my equipment.” 

Turning to Cal, Dorcas said, “How long do you think she has?”

“It’s hard to say,” Cal hedged.

Dorcas was aware of the silence in the room. Everyone was listening. As a healer, Dorcas knew the highwire act that Cal was being asked to perform. Give hope, but not too much hope as to be unrealistic. 

“She’s a little fighter,” he said, looking at the house–elf, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. “If she gets past the pneumonia, her chances are better.” 

“Couldn’t they remove the Admonitors, at least?” Dorcas asked, this time addressing Gideon. 

He shook his head. “A condition of her release.” 

“She’s resting now and her pulse is normal. I’ve done what I can,” Cal announced moments later, tucking the tiny arm he was holding under the covers. 

The group was led downstairs to the cluttered sitting room by Thaddeus and his wife, who was introduced as Rhoda. 

Tea had been laid out in preparation of their arrival. 

As Dorcas sat down with a cup and saucer perched on her knees, she looked around the room. 

Still as bursting with the rare and the valuable as she’d seen it in Hokey’s memory, the room had a more disheveled appearance. 

“Forgive the mess,” Rhoda said with a tone of embarrassment. “There’s a lot of inventory to be done.” 

“Yes,” Thaddeus added. “My aunt was a famous collector. It’s a real magpie’s nest, this.” 

Everyone sipped their tea, eyes darting around, unable to rest on any one thing. There was so much to take in. 

“Have you noticed anything missing?” Gideon asked, ever the solicitor.

Thaddeus and Rhoda exchanged looks. 

“There are a couple of very dear, very unique pieces that we’ve yet to locate. But, I’m sure they’ll turn up. My aunt had hiding places all over the house. Some of them are guarded with extremely powerful magic.” 

With that, the tea was finished in companionable silence. Only interrupted every once in a while when someone inquired about a curious artifact. 

“Thank you all for your help in bringing Hokey back to us,” Thaddeus effused, shaking Dorcas, Cal, and Gideon’s hands.

“She was his very first friend,” Rhoda added, smiling warmly at them. 

“I’ll check up on her tomorrow, if that is agreeable,” Cal said, helping Dorcas into her coat. 

“Yes, of course,” Thaddeus responded. 

Dorcas felt lighter. However long Hokey had, it would be spent in the company of those who loved her best and in the home that she’d faithfully served her entire life. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

23 February 1940 Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas sat flipping through the Wingate book again, then tossed it aside in irritation. She knew its contents by heart. The hospital had begun its life as a monastery in which the acestics treated the ailments of the neighboring community, wizard and Muggle alike. The monks were all wizards as best as Dorcas could tell. In the sixteenth century, that all changed with the ebb and flow of historical tides. The Protestant Reformation swept the continent in the first decades of the century, but took a bit longer to catch on in England. Aided by the motives of Henry VIII, come to England it did. 

The healers of Saint Jerome of Wingate continued to practice their healing until it became clear that the community would no longer tolerate the “devil’s art”. The non-magical members of the community being so solicitous of the Church’s prescription to earning heaven, they turned on the benevolent brothers. The ensuing decades in which England turned Protestant and then Catholic, and then to Protestantism once more had left the community surrounding the hospital blood-poor in magical abilities. Wizarding kind all over Europe erected enchantments and illusions to keep them veiled from the destructive whims of Muggles. The age of magical and non-magical association came to a violent end. 

Wingate stood. It survived the Protestant purges against the glut of land and wealth held by the papacy in England. This was accomplished in no small part, by a scheme of the remaining community of healers who warded the hospital against Muggle eyes and painstakingly erased the hospital’s deeds and reputation from the collective conscience of the people. Muggles saw a parochial school, complete with teachers and pupils, sans magic of any type. But the magical healers of Saint Jerome’s continued to practice their arts on the dwindling population of witches and wizards living there. 

Apart from the larger healing facility in London, named for another sainted healer, Saint Jerome’s gained a reputation over the next few centuries as a conservatory where wizards skilled in healing the mind of magical maladies could practice without restraint or reproof. By the end of the eighteenth century, its reputation among the pureblood families as a place where shameful genetic inconsistencies of their gene pool could be hidden away from the judgement of other purebloods was cemented. Thus, Wingate’s evolution to an institution of neglect and torture was solidified in the British Wizarding community.

How many other places like Wingate existed in the world? She became uneasy when her mind turned to comparisons between the community she lived in and the society that had evolved on the continent under the regime of the National Socialist leader. But, the voice of the Fuhrer was inescapable by radio or newsprint, and the ideology that Dorcas had heard him to profess singled other groups out for separation just as the magical community seemed to single out Squibs here in Britain. 

Dorcas abandoned that line of thought. It made her shudder to ponder the comparison in great detail. Instead, her mind turned to the mystery of the hospital’s location. She’d spent weeks scanning every periodical that the Hogwarts library contained searching for some mention of a hospital with such a storied history. There was not one word in the publications about the good healers and their charges. No mention at all of where the hospital was located. She could not accept the termination of her quest to uncover the reasons for her uncle’s suffering. 

She sat with a great medical tome open at her table, under the lamp in the library once more. Having failed to uncover anything further about the establishment or the community in which it was positioned, Dorcas turned instead to the possible treatments the doctors had used on their wretched patients. The Wingate book was frustratingly scant on details of the spells themselves, although exhaustive in recounting the torture that was inflicted by them. 

“At it again?” Tom asked, taking his usual seat next to her. He had another dusty genealogy in his arms. 

“You too?” Dorcas rejoined, eyeing the book. 

He did not respond, but sat and opened the cover and began his quest. Dorcas continued hers. They sojourned in companionable silence. 

:::

23-24 February 1940 Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas would have protested the location of tonight’s castle exploration if Tom had told her where they were going. The gusty wind bit at her cheeks and made her eyes water. Tom was prepared, having stashed some of the quilts from the floor of his den in the secret seventh floor hideout into a niche along the tower’s winding stairs. 

She could not fault his logic. They had begun to operate on the theory that Tom was unable to read Dorcas’s thoughts because of the powerful enchantments that the Founders, and also subsequent generations of educators, had layered into the stone walls and foundations of the school. The last couple of times Dorcas and Tom met to practice these abilities, they were in Tom’s hideout, warm under the blankets. Dorcas’s passing comment about how Tom needed to focus in order to overcome her mind’s barriers had given him the idea. They had brainstormed locations on the grounds, the Astronomy Tower being the least objectionable of the list. Dorcas flat refused a midnight stroll through the Forbidden Forest. 

Sheltered against the crenelated wall of the tallest tower at Hogwarts, Dorcas wrapped in one of the dusty blankets, she leaned against Tom’s chest and his back bore the freezing contact with the wall. There was no denying that it was an especially cold night. Even Tom had a quilt thrown about his shoulders. 

Settled as she was between Tom’s legs, a blanket and his arms wrapped around her, she still could not stop shaking. This only abated when Tom took out his wand and muttered an incantation. The blankets became deliciously heated, and Dorcas found that she could relax; the reflexive trembling stopped almost immediately. 

Dorcas’s eyes became heavy as she focused on the rhythmic rise and fall of Tom’s chest behind her, the sound of his breath close to her ear. She had fallen into a terrible habit of lapsing into a search of Tom’s mind before an invitation was given. 

He was warm and complacent, focused on how Dorcas felt in his arms; the scent of her hair that brushed his cheek. 

Dorcas smiled to herself, thankful that Tom was yet a novice and could not readily traverse the barrier of her mind. 

“Why are you interested in that hospital, Birdie,” Tom asked, pulling Dorcas out of her sleepy trance. 

“Hmm?” Dorcas said. She’d not heard the question, only Tom’s voice breaking the silence. 

“The hospital in that book you carry around.” He shifted so that the blanket around him covered her too. “Why are you interested in it?” 

Dorcas thought about where to begin. “Have I told you about my family?” 

Tom thought for a moment. “I know that you live with your mother. You’ve mentioned her before. She works at St. Mungo’s. You have two cousins, Gemma and Jonas. They’re in my house but you were sorted into Ravenclaw. You don’t seem too close to them.” The scant inventory complete, Dorcas realized that she never mentioned Morty to Tom at all. 

“I live with my mother and her little brother, my uncle, Morty,” she explained. “My mother’s older brother is Gemma and Jonas’s father. My mum doesn’t get along with him very well. And, you’re right, I’m not close to my cousins. I’ve spoken to Jonas because we have classes together. But I’ve never said a word to Gemma.”

Tom listened and took in every detail. “It strikes me as odd that one could have a blood connection to another person, but live a completely separate existence in which you never speak.”

Dorcas, wanting to defend her family dynamic, almost pointed out to Tom that having no relatives, he couldn’t possibly understand. Never wishing to wound him, as this comment surely would have, she bit back the words. 

Instead, she continued her tale, shedding some light onto the estrangement between the two sides of the Rackharrows. “My grandfather, Titus, was embarrassed to have a son like my Uncle Morty because he isn’t magical. He sent him to that place when my uncle didn’t receive a Hogwarts letter.”

Tom inhaled sharply. He’d read the book. He knew what Wingate Institution did to children who were sent there. 

“And your grandmother? Did she try to stop him?” 

Dorcas shook her head. “She might have done. But she died when Morty was born.”

It was easy to feel Tom’s thoughts as he reacted to this. He had sympathy for Morty. Dorcas inspected his emotions closer and realized that the feeling was commiseration. Tom’s mother had died upon his birth as well. Dorcas remembered that he’d once explained that he’d been at the orphanage as long as he could remember. 

In response to this recollection, Dorcas snuggled closer to Tom, her hand finding his arm wrapped around her and squeezed it gently. His reply was to press his lips gently to her temple. 

“He spent less than a year there before his sister got him out. He came to live with her. But he was changed.” 

“How so?” Tom asked. 

“Whatever spells they used on the children in that place…” Dorcas tried to explain without fully knowing herself. It was frustrating. “My uncle has trouble understanding things. He’s twelve years older than me, but his mind is still like a child’s. And he has these horrible seizures.” Dorcas trailed off with a shudder, recalling the worst episode in December when her uncle had ended up in the hospital. 

Tom squeezed her tighter when she shuddered, believing her to be cold still. 

“Like epilepsy?”

Dorcas nodded. 

“So what are you going to do with the information you’re gathering?” 

The question stumped Dorcas. What did she intend to do when she got her answers? She didn’t think it likely that she would ever be able to help her uncle recover in any significant way. She knew that the place that had injured him was shut down. Maybe she was just driven by simply wanting to  _ know _ . 

“What about your research? Have you found any relatives?” Dorcas asked because she didn’t know how to answer him. 

“None. But I don’t have a lot to go on. Mrs. Cole, she runs the orphanage. She was there the night my mother showed up on the orphanage steps.” 

‘What did Mrs. Cole tell you?” Dorcas asked, curious. She didn’t know a lot about Tom outside of Hogwarts and was eager to gain any insight into him. 

“She never told me anything,” Tom responded. “But I broke into her office one night. I found her gin and I found my file.” 

Dorcas smiled to herself. She pictured a wayward little Tom sneaking about the orphanage, just as he snuck around the school. 

“What was in the file?” Dorcas prompted. 

“My name, birthdate, some other details that she’d remembered when my mother came there. She died not long after I was born. I don’t even know her name. And that’s the end of that.” 

That was, indeed, little to go on. 

“What were the details she remembered about your mum?” She felt Tom shrug in response to her question. 

“That it was her request that I have the name of my father and her father,” he said simply. 

“They were both named Tom?” Dorcas thought that this could be a serious barrier to making progress on finding Tom’s family line. Tom was such a common name. 

“No,” Tom explained. “My father is Tom, her father is Marvolo. Riddle is my father’s surname, I suppose. I don’t even know if he was married to my mother. And then, Mrs. Cole had written down one curious thing my mother had said: I hope he looks like his father.” 

Dorcas thought about this last detail for a moment, wondering if Tom’s mother got her dying wish. Did Tom resemble his father or mother? How would they ever know? 

“I’ve looked for the name Riddle in all of the wizarding genealogies. I’ve looked at every award and plaque in the Trophy Room. I’m sure my father  _ was _ magical, or  _ is _ magical. I don’t know if he’s even alive anymore.”

Dorcas could detect a note of frustration in his voice. 

“How can you be certain?” 

“I can’t. It’s just a feeling. My mother couldn’t have been magical. If she were, she could have used magic to keep herself alive. She wouldn’t have collapsed at an orphanage and then just left me there.” 

Dorcas didn’t have to search Tom’s mind to feel the sense of abandonment that came with this statement. 

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Dorcas whispered. 

In answer, Tom held her closer and rested his chin on the top of her head. It was a long while until either one spoke. Dorcas was struck with a thought. 

“Maybe you’re the first magical member of your family,” Dorcas said. She could tell instantly that Tom did not like this theory all that well. His arms stiffened around her. 

He answered with a hollow, “Maybe.” That was the end of the discussion of Tom’s family tree for the moment. 

“Can you try to push out with your thoughts?” Tom asked Dorcas, changing the subject to reading minds. 

“You mean like when you talk to me with your mind?” Dorcas asked, adjusting the blanket wrapped around her, pulled up to her chin. She considered this question. “I could try.” 

She picked a completely mundane memory of Potions class yesterday and the lecture on Aconite that Slughorn had given. She pictured the thought being cast free of her mind and out into the space ahead of her. As she concentrated mightily on this task, she could not push aside all of Tom’s thoughts that vied for her attention. Some thoughts were ones that’d she’d seen before, many others were new. 

Dorcas could see the snake in the tall grass talking to Tom when he was with the other children at the orphanage outing. She saw a rabbit hanging from the rafters of a large dormitory with rows of beds. A stern woman (Mrs. Cole, she presumed), shouting at Tom, demanding to know how the rabbit had gotten up there. Tom shrugged and said he couldn’t get into the rafters, so how should he know. 

If the sight of a hanged rabbit hadn’t unsettled Dorcas, the next image would. She had returned to the seaside. She spun and saw to her left the windswept cliff and below that, the cave mouth that she had entered as Tom. But a loud hissing pulled her attention from the black cavern and she spun to her right in alarm. The largest snake that Dorcas had ever seen was approaching Tom. 

Just as she had done when she saw the small serpent talking to Tom during the outing to the countryside, she wanted to call out to Tom in warning now. But she found that she couldn’t. The snake was immense. Dorcas thought of pictures of some Southeast Asian constrictors or pythons from the Amazon that she’d seen. This one was larger by far.

Tom did not seem surprised by the snake’s appearance and did not exhibit the urge to flee as Dorcas would have expected from anyone who had beheld such an enormous predator. Instead, Tom spoke to it. It hissed back. They conversed. 

Dorcas was seeing the inside of the cave from Tom’s vantage point once more. As he may have done, Dorcas turned and spoke to two children who clamored over rocks that were slick with sea water and vegetation. She had known their identity, because she’d seen them in Tom’s mind before. And, she reasoned, she  _ was _ Tom now. Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop. She knew things about them, because Tom knew things about them. Amy Benson tattled to Mrs. Cole when she saw Tom stealing from the new kid, Dennis. They both needed to learn their place. They both must understand the consequences that came with disobedience. 

Her words to the children were drowned out by the roaring waves below them. She was unafraid of either Amy or Dennis slipping and falling. If they did, it was just as well. Call it natural retribution. But nature claimed no victims on the craggy cliff that night. Dorcas led the boy and girl deeper into blackness. She heard the angry sea receding, but another sound growing louder. It was her own voice (Tom’s voice). But he spoke no words, only a series of hissing sounds. The striking serpent came out of the void unexpectedly. Dorcas jumped in her own skin and felt adrenaline course through her, but in Tom’s skin she was calm and knew to expect the snake’s lunge. 

Behind her Amy and Dennis fell over one another and raced for the cave’s opening, screaming in terror. Dorcas was screaming in terror as well. 

Dorcas was being shaken forcefully, her head snapping backward and forward with the violent motion. She blinked and the cave, the children, the snake were no longer before her eyes. Instead, Tom’s panic-stricken face was inches from her. 

“Do you want to wake the entire school?” he said through gritted teeth. 

Dorcas’s screams died out immediately and Tom threw her backward against the stone wall and stood up. 

“What’s wrong with you?” He spat the question with disdain. 

Dorcas stumbled, blankets twisted around her feet. She stood and tried to explain in a low and quavering voice. 

“Amy and Dennis,” she began, her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart was beating furiously. 

Tom rounded on her. His eyes flashed and he was furious. His hand shot out as Dorcas recoiled from him and he caught her wrist. With one deft and powerful jerk, he twisted her arm, forcing her to her knees to take pressure off of the bones that were threatening to snap. 

“What did you say?” Tom stood over her, a whitehot anger radiating from him. 

Dorcas felt tears on her cheeks, the wind turning them cold before they fell. She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Somehow, she knew that to lie to Tom would mean pain far worse than her throbbing arm knew in this moment. 

Instead, Dorcas employed a rarely-used, but innate trait of hers. Unlike her ability to see into the minds of others, Tom knew nothing of it. She could influence the moods of others. But, unlike her ability to see thoughts, she could reign this ability in and use it in moderation. Her Uncle Morty was the only soul she had ever influenced in this way. She would use it now and again when he became agitated. 

Tom twisted her arm mercilessly. Dorcas cried out, but this only increased the pressure Tom applied. She knew that he was relishing her pain. 

“What did you just try to do to me?” he said, his voice calm but threatening. 

Dorcas felt something in her arm snap. She cried out again. “Nothing,” she gasped, her vision began to swim. 

“Don’t lie,” Tom commanded. For good measure, he slapped her across the face with the hand that did not clutch her broken wrist. 

Dorcas tasted blood. “I’m trying to calm you.” Every word Dorcas spoke pulled at her split lip and made it throb. 

Finally, he released her broken wrist. The pressure of his fingers at last gone, she could feel a sharp pain near the fracture, but only the faintest pin pricks in her fingertips. She tried to flex her hand, but it wouldn’t obey her and rested limply in her lap. 

Tom was crouching in front of her. He grabbed her face with the hand that had just snapped her wrist. Squeezing hard, he forced her to look at him. 

“Let’s try this again,” he said, that calm voice that belied a tempest beneath the surface sent a chill down Dorcas’s spine. He was inches from her face, his breath and hers mingling in visible vapor in the freezing air of the Astronomy Tower. “What did you see? Why did you say the names Amy and Dennis?” 

Dorcas was terrified. She would not attempt to evade Tom again, but she didn’t want to describe to him the disturbing scene that she’d witnessed either. 

“I won’t ask you again,” he warned. 

“A cave, a snake, you, two other children.” 

It was enough of a confirmation that she’d seen something that Tom intended for no one to see, by the way he pushed her backward with the hand that held her face to his. But as Dorcas fell backward over the tangle of blankets around her ankles, Tom was instantly on top of her, pinning her down. His hands grasped her upper arms in a vice grip, fingers digging into her flesh even though she wore a thick jumper. His legs were on either side of hers, restraining them. 

“Do not look into my mind, Birdie,” he ordered. To make his point perfectly clear, he emphasized it by shaking her. Dorcas’s head hit the stone of the rooftop observatory floor once and then again. The third time Tom threw her back against the stone she saw stars. And then nothing. 

:::

24 February 1940 First Year Girls’ Dormitory, Ravenclaw Tower, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas woke to the faint light of morning coming in through the window to her left. Someone had already thrown the curtains back. 

Opening her eyes invited a stabbing pain to enter her head. Sitting up brought the realization that not only her head, but her arm throbbed and stabbed as well. Trying to focus her eyes was more of an effort than it should have been. But when they did focus, she could see that her right wrist was swollen and had a ghastly purple tinge to it. 

Throwing her covers off of her, Dorcas noted blandly that she was still in the clothes she had worn the night before. She paused on the edge of her bed and struggled to remember where she had gone and what she had done. 

Reaching her left hand up to her pounding head, she felt that her hair was sticky and matted in the back. When she pulled her hand away, it was bloody. She blinked and did not remember how she came to have a head injury and, she couldn’t be certain, but it felt like a broken wrist. 

Placing her feet on the floor, Dorcas paused before shifting her weight forward. She was not altogether confident that her legs could support her. She breathed heavily to stave off a wave of nausea that came on her suddenly. 

She finally gave her legs the full weight of the rest of her and swayed for a moment, but stayed upright. Scanning the room, aware that her appearance would invite gasps and solicitations about her well being, she was relieved to find that she was alone. Turning to the small clock beside her bed, she saw that it was half past ten. 

Dorcas’s mind made a painful lurch as she panicked. She had missed one class completely, though she struggled to think just exactly what class it had been. And now she was late for another. But, as much as she wanted to grab her books and race out of the dormitory, the reflection that she caught in the mirror above her bedside table told her that the prudent course of action would be to make herself presentable. 

Stumbling to the trunk at the end of her bed, she tried to push back anger that she felt for her roommates. Why hadn’t anyone woken her up for classes? She would have been courteous enough to do the same for any of them. She found a fresh uniform folded on the top of her trunk’s contents and rushed out of the dormitory and to the girl’s washroom. The effort at normal motion of any kind was impared by blurred vision and vertigo. But she managed to find the right door and push through it. 

Undressing one handed was a difficult task that left her head more muddled and painful than before. Finally divesting herself of every stitch of clothing, she ducked behind the curtains of the shower. The water stung the back of her head, but the steam relieved some of the pain behind her eyes and in her wrist. She found that she could barely move the fingers of her right hand, however. This worried her. As she washed, she discovered other lesser injuries. On each of her biceps, she found dark bruises. And, on her left, in the center of a particularly dark welt, a cut in the shape of a small crescent. Placing her fingernail close to the cut, she could see that it mimicked the shape closely enough. She ran a finger over her jaw and mouth as well. Though she couldn’t see them, she could feel the bruises on her chin and jaw with the slightest bit of pressure. There was a gash near the corner of her lower lip as well. 

She gingerly washed her hair and stepped out of the shower, instantly chilled. Catching her reflection in the steamed mirror opposite her made her unease grow. She stooped and collected her towel from the floor beside the pile of fresh clothes, but she did not bother to dry herself and dress. Instead, she used the towel to wipe the condensation from the mirror and forced herself to inventory the injuries. She was still unable to remember anything from the night before. 

She studied the bruises on her upper arms, raising her left, she pressed it over the purple and black marks on her right. Her fingers didn’t quite cover them, but larger ones might. It would fit with the fingernail like marking on her left arm, which she studied now in the mirror. 

Her gaze traveled up to her face. There were indeed bruises on her jaw and chin, and a dark purple mark at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darted to the cut that split her lip there. 

She left the washroom after dressing and arranging her hair in a simple plait and debated what to do next. There were a couple of students milling around the common room, including her roommates June and Zelda. Bing lay on his back between the pair, having his belly scratched. 

Dorcas tucked her chin into her chest, hoping that no one would comment on the state of her appearance. Pausing once more outside of the wooden door with the bronze eagle knocker, she debated once more. She should really hurry to class. But her blurred vision and the fact that she could hardly move her dominant hand left little doubt that she would be unable to carry out her studies appropriately. She swayed on the spot and placed her left hand on the wall to steady herself. 

“Hey Clerey,” she heard Cal’s voice call conversationally. She looked in his direction blandly. 

“Hey,” she said, trying to sound as offhand and casual as possible. 

He was with his friends, Beau Haywood and Darren Barton. She saw him address them under his breath and they departed. He crossed the hall to stand next to her. 

“I had an idea,” he began, holding out a letter to her, but he paused when he looked at her. “Why are you dressed like that?” 

She dropped her hand from the wall and looked at her uniform. “Like what?” she asked.

“Like you’re off to class,” Cal clarified. Dorcas noticed that he and the other students in the hallway were not dressed similarly. Cal looked as if he had just come in from a morning spent out of doors. 

In her confusion, Dorcas looked directly at Cal and cast about for an answer. But she couldn’t think of one. She was spared the effort of responding when Cal inhaled sharply. 

“Jesus Christ,” he said, shocked. He placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “What happened?” His hand moved from her shoulder to her neck and his thumb gently tilted her chin up to him. 

A light suddenly flicked on in Dorcas’s brain. As if waiting for someone to ask this very question, a memory popped into her mind of going up to the Owlery late last night. What had she been doing up there?

“I slipped on the steps going up to the Owlery last night. They were icy,” Dorcas said mechanically. 

Cal surveyed her bruised face and her cut lip sceptically. “You fell? Are you sure?”

Dorcas was annoyed at his disbelief. “Of course, I’m sure.” She made up her mind at that moment, to go about her normal school schedule as best she could and hope that her skiving and lateness wouldn’t earn her detention. “Look, I have to get to class.” 

“It’s Sunday,” Cal stated calmly, unfazed by Dorcas’s sharp tone. “Did you hit your head?” 

Reflexively, she lifted her hand to the back of her head, which painfully protested. 

“Okay, Clerey. To the hospital wing,” he ordered. He grabbed her right hand and this elicited a sharp cry from Dorcas. 

Cal stepped back in surprise at her reaction and pulled his hand away quickly. 

“I think it’s broken,” Dorcas said apologetically, holding her right hand up to Cal by way of explanation. 

His only response was another sharply inhaled breath and a hand on her back, pushing her gently in the direction of the infirmary. 

:::

Dorcas didn’t protest when Cal guided her all the way to the sterile whitewashed rooms of the hospital wing. She wondered vaguely why she hadn’t come here directly after her fall last night. It was so foolish. 

At the doors, Madam Higgins hurried over, fretting about the laceration on Dorcas’s lip. 

Cal pointed out the more serious injury to her wrist and the concussion that he suspected. 

Madam Higgins bustled Dorcas behind a screen and bade Cal wait in a chair at enough of a distance so as to preserve Dorcas’s modesty and privacy. Then she carefully helped Dorcas out of her uniform. She was especially diligent as she guided Dorcas’s injured right hand from its sleeve. Her kind touch reminded Dorcas of her mother. The thought made her breath catch in her throat. She wanted to be with her mother more than anyone else right now. She would have had all of the answers. 

“This looks bad,” Madam Higgins said, examining the wrist and the bruises on Dorcas’s upper arms. “You say you fell?”

She pulled out her wand and touched it to each of the bruises. Each one in turn faded to a dull yellowish-green. The small puncture in the shape of a fingernail was closed. Then she gently held Dorcas’s right arm out. 

“This will sting a bit, dear,” Madam Higgins warned. 

Dorcas inhaled and braced herself for pain. But it was bearable. The relief that she felt after the small pop was exquisite. She closed her eyes momentarily as the dull and persistent ache in the joint faded. 

“You should have come to me straight away,” she admonished Dorcas, but not unkindly. 

She helped Dorcas to don a crisp white nightgown and into a waiting infirmary bed. Madam Higgins examined the back of her head once she was tucked into the blankets. 

“Now this is a frightful cut,” she muttered to herself. To Dorcas, she added, “I can close the wound, but you likely have a concussion. It looks like you’ve given yourself a pretty good smack on the head.” 

Dorcas didn’t respond. She didn’t have a clear memory of what actually happened. She could not relive the scene when she tried to recall it in her mind. She had only a vague impression that it had happened. 

“Now it’s time for some rest,” Madam Higgins pronounced, handing Dorcas a small glass with an ounce of deep blue liquid in it. “Drink,” she ordered when Dorcas hesitated. 

She lay back feeling instantly heavy lidded. She watched as Madam Higgins turned from her and stepped over to Cal, who sat by the door. She couldn’t hear what they said but it was just as well, because she couldn’t focus on their shapes. And then there was oblivion. 

:::

Dorcas was in a hurry to post a letter. She couldn’t say why the need was so urgent. She did not know why it had to be posted at night. She didn’t know who she was sending the letter to. 

None of these gaps in understanding stopped her from taking the steps to the Owlery two at a time. Her lungs protested in the cold, but she rushed on. She belatedly registered the patch of ice on the topmost steps to the landing, her foot was already sailing behind her. 

She smacked the last step of the landing with her mouth, the copper taste of blood alerted her to that injury first. But as she shifted to her knees, trying to pull herself up to a standing position once more, her arm protested loudly at the effort. She tried to flex her fingers on her right hand, but they would not cooperate without an unbearable grinding of bone on bone when her tendons pulled. 

Losing her footing a second time caused her to tumble backward and land face up and prostrate upon the stone. Her vision swam and tiny pricks of light danced before her before the blackness descended on her. 

She woke later after an unknown amount of time had passed. Her fingers and toes were numb from the cold and her head felt as if it would split open. Managing to get to her hands and knees, she used the wall to brace her as she stood. 

Somehow she had walked all the way back to Ravenclaw Tower and climbed into bed. How could she have managed it? And what happened to the letter she was in such a perilous rush to send off? Did it lay on the icy steps of the Owlery at this very moment? Had it been picked up and posted for her? 

Dorcas woke with these questions swirling in her mind, but to the figure sitting next to her bed she only asked, “What time is it?” 

Tom sat up, flinging his feet off of her bed where they rested as he reclined in the chair beside her. He set down the book he was reading and said, “Around six in the evening on Monday.” 

This should have meant something to Dorcas. Perhaps if she’d had a context that informed her of when she’d entered the hospital wing then she would have been able to gauge how long she’d been asleep. 

The last thing she remembered before closing her eyes was Madam Higgins in conversation with Cal. 

“Where is Cal?” she asked. He would be able to tell her how long she’d been asleep. A deep sense of panic overwhelmed her when she began to imagine how many classes and assignments she’d likely missed. 

She only faintly registered the dark look that passed over Tom’s face. The next moment he became solicitous. 

“I don’t know, Birdie,” he answered. “Don’t try to move. You took a nasty fall yesterday.” 

He stood so that he could be closer to Dorcas’s bedside, taking her right hand in his. Dorcas was aware that Tom’s touch should have pained her wrist, but it didn’t. All of the injuries she remembered inflicting upon herself thanks to her clumsiness were now healed. 

The pounding in her head contradicted her supposition. Almost all injuries had been healed. 

“Do you remember what happened?” Tom asked, searching her eyes for any hint of an explanation for her banged up and bruised state. 

“I went to the Owlery to post a letter,” Dorcas was aware of the rehearsed quality of the response. How many people had she already answered this question for? “There was ice and I fell.” 

“You’re very lucky,” Tom pronounced with an affectionate squeeze of her hand. “It could have been much worse.” He looked as if imagining “the worst” had been a torture that he’d played out in his mind on repeat. 

She didn’t have a reply. Her brain hurt too badly to think. 

Tom seemed to sense that she’d reached the end of her strength for the moment and said nothing more. He pulled his chair closer to Dorcas’s bed and sat once more, keeping her fingers firmly in his grasp until she fell asleep again. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

November 22 1957 Janus Thickey Ward for Long-Term Spell Damage, Saint Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

Dorcas walked along the corridor outside of the Long-Term Ward for Spell Damage with a young man. She was dressed in the customary lime green robes with the St. Mungo’s emblem, a crossed wand and bone on the breast pocket. Her charge was dressed in a uniform of sorts as well. A white hospital gown and a light blue bathrobe. 

The Janus Thickey Ward was where most of Dorcas’s healing skills were applied. Her work with Cal on the Blood-Replenishing Potion all but complete, she rarely got the chance to see her husband at the hospital. She missed the research, which was thrilling. 

Her work with long-term spell damage was rewarding in its own way, but the Dai Llewellyn Ward was where all of the emergent and gruesome cases tested a wizard’s mettle at every moment. She missed that, and she always relished the opportunity to partner her husband in the lab or the operating theater. 

She turned her attention to Gus Hawkins, whose arm she was holding firmly, guiding slowly down the corridor. She found that when he was up and moving, he could talk more openly with her. His was a case of a backfiring Stunning Spell. His file stated that he had stunned himself so thoroughly that his lungs did not draw breath for over three minutes. His brain, having been deprived of oxygen, had not been able to throw off the spell. A properly cast Stunning Spell wears off of the victim naturally. The spell that had accidentally stunned young Mr. Hawkins was wearing off by degrees, slowly over the course of about two months. 

The last part of the body being gradually released from the spell’s effects was his mind. 

“How are you feeling today, Mr. Hawkins?” Dorcas asked in a cheerful, but clinical tone. 

“The same,” he answered, shuffling along next to Dorcas. 

“What do you mean when you say “the same”?” Dorcas probed gently. She had to toe a fine line around Mr. Hawkins. As the spell released parts of his mind gradually in the last two weeks, his emotions had responded by swinging wildly in the extreme. 

“I mean...” He paused. 

Dorcas remained a silent support beside him. She gave him the space to find his words in his own time. 

“Sometimes I feel like myself again. Sometimes, I don’t know who I am or what this place is. It’s frightening,” he continued. 

“Yes, I imagine that can be very frightening,” Dorcas nodded. 

“How did you feel yesterday, when Elizabeth came to see you?” 

Dorcas was not present yesterday when Mrs. Hawkins had visited her husband, but her colleague, Healer Crawford, made a note in the patient’s file of the meeting and Mr. Hawkins’s agitated state. 

“Elizabeth,” he said her name with reverence. 

“Yes, your wife,” Dorcas coaxed. 

“I felt happy to see her. But I was also sad when she brought up things that I didn’t remember.” 

“Why did that make you sad?” 

They turned the corner, leaving the ward and came to the tea shop. 

“I was reminded that part of my life’s been erased. It’s frustrating not to be a complete person. Not to have a whole mind.” 

They took two seats at a table in the corner. 

“You explained yourself very well just then Mr. Hawkins. Do you recall how hard it was two weeks ago to form words?” She waited for him to respond. 

He nodded slowly. The expression on his face turned from dejectedness to hopefulness. 

“And you remembered some things that you could talk to Elizabeth about?” 

He conceded this point with another nod. 

A waitress came to take their order. Dorcas insisted on Gus placing his order for himself. 

She pushed him past his comfort zone more every day. Knowing that every time she asked Gus to explain something he’d said, or order his own tea, a little more of his mind was tapped to carry out the task. 

She turned back to Gus once the waitress left. 

“You remember more about Elizabeth every time she visits.”

Gus agreed. 

“So why did you get upset with her when you didn’t remember a story that she told?” 

Again, she gave Gus the space to think about his answer and organize his words. 

“What if this is as far as I can progress? What if some memories and some abilities never come back?” 

“You’re worried that you will plateau?” Dorcas asked as the tea arrived. 

She watched Gus add sugar to his, stir it with his spoon and lift it to his mouth. A month ago all of these actions would have been beyond his ability. She reminded Gus of this. 

She smiled as she watched her patient conversing and carrying out tasks that he had not been capable of when he was first admitted. She could not quiet his fear. It was entirely possible that not all of his memories or functions would return to him. But, she reasoned the progress that he had made so far was extremely encouraging. And she would help him go as far as it was possible for him to go in his recovery. 

She was reminded of something Cal said a lifetime ago, when they were tucked into a little niche behind a tapestry in Hogwarts, looking into the practices of less scrupulous healers. He’d said, “Magic can be incredibly destructive.” 

On the other hand, Dorcas thought, the human body could be incredibly resilient. 

:::

As Dorcas shed her uniform robe and pinned her hat to her hair, readying herself to leave the Wizarding hospital and enter Muggle London, she was thinking about the hard work that still lay ahead for her and Gus Hawkins. 

She left her St. Mungo’s office, pulling on her driving gloves. She was anxious to meet Cal in the hospital lobby and head for home. Tonight they were planning to celebrate Cal’s birthday with dinner and dancing. She was looking forward to some fun with the old gang. 

Dorcas stopped short of the lobby doors when she saw a tall figure pass through the entryway and out onto the London street. It was a figure that she hadn’t seen since her days at Hogwarts. But why was Professor Dumbledore visiting St. Mungo’s? She hoped there was nothing wrong with him. 

The thought struck her as absurd. Although the man must be old, he always possessed a young and vital spirit. The idea that anything serious enough to prompt him to visit the hospital could be ailing him seemed as unlikely as the sun and the moon completing their cycles in reverse. 

“Ready?” Cal’s voice behind her made her forget the odd sight. He placed a hand on her back and led her through the doors to the exit. 

:::

7 March 1940 Hospital Wing, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Were it not for the steady stream of friends that came to visit Dorcas, she would have gone mad in the hospital wing. 

Anneliese and Cherry diligently brought her assignments and textbooks. And, despite Madam Higgins’s orders against it, she completed these in fierce succession, determined as she was not to fall behind her classmates in lessons. 

Tom brought her books from the library. On two clandestine occasions, he smuggled Bing in to see her. 

Cal was with her now, providing the distraction Dorcas required in the form of a letter. 

This was the very same letter that Cal was about to show her before noticing her injuries and insisting she get them looked at. She was eager to return to the subject of the Wingate Investigation. 

Cal wrote to the publishers of the mysterious Wingate book two weeks ago and had only just received their reply. They gave an address for the author, Harriet Finnigan. 

She and Cal were triaging lists of topics to write to Ms. Finnigan about. Should they ask about the institution's location? Should they focus instead on gleaning information about the specific spells and treatments the healers had used on the children? Would it be more prudent to find out if Finnigan knew of other institutions that used the same methods that were still in operation? 

“I can’t think of anywhere else to look. It’s like the hospital was just erased with the fire in 1926. Nothing exists in the whole library, except the two pages that we’ve already read in  _ Medical Institutions of Great Britain _ .”

Cal was brushing the feathered tip of a quill across his lips in thought as Dorcas spoke. He abandoned the list they were compiling momentarily. 

“Maybe we could look in Muggle newspapers,” Cal suggested. 

Dorcas was about to express her doubt, but then something she’d read in the Finnigan book came back to her: the monks protected the school by cloaking it in a Muggle disguise. 

“It was disguised as a parochial school for Muggles,” Dorcas answered, sitting up in her hospital bed. “But the library doesn’t carry Muggle periodicals.” 

“Let’s write to the author and see what she can tell us. If we reach a dead end, then we can turn this into a Muggle investigation.”

If Dorcas could have her way, she would throw back the covers and head straight for the library. She would draft that letter and dispatch it as soon as she could. But she was sitting with Cal and he was almost as vigilant about her recovery as Madam Higgins was. 

“Clerey,” Cal said. His tone announced that he was about to embark on another round of questions concerning the circumstances of her fall. 

Dorcas looked at her hands in her lap. This was becoming a ritual of their visits that she did not relish. 

“I already told you everything, Cal,” Dorcas said in a flat tone. She tried to keep her voice from shaking in frustration. No one wished for the details of her memories to match up with the injuries she’d sustained more than she did. “I wish I could remember more.” 

“You are absolutely sure that you didn’t see anyone on the steps to the Owlery?” 

This question caused her to pause in her assurances that things happened exactly as she had described them. He’d never suggested that another person could have been involved before. 

“I’m sure,” she said finally. “Why are you asking?” 

Cal leaned closer in the uncomfortable wooden chair he was sitting in. “Dorcas, your face had bruises all over it. They were like finger marks on your chin and cheek, like someone grabbed your face hard.”

Cal had not seen the bruises on her upper arms. But she thought the same thing when she’d seen them. She’d even held her own fingers to the markings to see if they matched up. But she didn’t remember meeting anyone at the Owlery or even after. 

Dorcas knew what to say when she wanted this line of questioning to end. 

“I’m tired, Cal,” she said, yawning for effect. 

“You don’t have to tell me if someone’s hurting you. But I hope you’ll tell someone,” Cal said, finally accepting that the conversation had reached an end. There was an edge to his voice that gave Dorcas the impression that he was cross with her. 

“No one’s hurting me, Cal,” she said, exasperation clear in her voice. She couldn’t explain why the bruises looked so suspicious. But she was more certain of her memory every time she was asked to relive it. 

:::

22 November 1957, The Savoy Hotel, London

There were two inducements that ultimately convinced Dorcas to move back to London after nearly a decade abroad. The first inducement was the desire for Ryann and Wren to attend her alma mater. The second one was sitting around the table in front of her, the closest friends she’d ever had. Most of the party seated around the finely appointed table at the Savoy Restaurant were the first friends she’d ever made when she went away to school. In fact, she fondly remembered the copper whirlwind that was Cherry Weasley; the first person who’d spoken to her on the Hogwarts Express. 

Cherry couldn’t seem to focus on her meal, so convinced was she that Frank Sinatra or Sophia Loren might walk through and she would miss it. 

Jonas, seated next to Cherry, was enlisted as a lookout for famous Muggle actors and singers too. Dorcas thought this a bit comical. Jonas was the last person who could carry out this commission as he was a pureblood wizard with practically no Muggle experiences to speak of. 

Beau and Cal, their heads bent close to one another, were engaged in Quidditch talk. Dorcas smiled, this was probably the best birthday present that she could possibly give her husband: twenty uninterrupted minutes to talk to another human being who did not have to feign interest in the Pride of Portree’s winning streak. 

“It must be dead helpful to have a live-in nanny,” Anneliese was saying to Dorcas. They were discussing Theresa’s decision to move in with Cal and Dorcas full time. 

“She’s not a nanny. But it is nice that she is able to watch Wren for us,” Dorcas conceded. 

“Any idea where that loathsome Lothario went? The one that seduced her and murdered her husband?” 

“None.” Dorcas sipped her champagne. “But he’s definitely on the DMLE’s radar. He can’t go within five hundred feet of Theresa or Billy. A location charm would alert the Ministry immediately.”

“You’re amazing! The way you cracked that case,” Anneliese beamed proudly at her friend. 

:::

The plates having been cleared and a toast having been given in Cal’s honor, the party moved to the ballroom where the big band was playing a Glen Miller tune.

“Holy Hippogriff,” Cherry exclaimed loudly as they entered. “That’s John Wayne!” 

Everyone looked in the direction she was pointing. 

“I’m going to touch him!” Cherry announced. 

Before she could shoot off in the direction of the man she was pointing at, Jonas pulled her into an embrace and bustled her onto the dance floor. 

“They’re such a sweet couple,” Anneliese cooed. “I hope they get married.”

Before Dorcas could respond that she wished the same for her friend and her cousin, Beau pulled his wife onto the dance floor as well. Dorcas and Cal joined them. 

Cal had always been a great dancer. His bulky frame belied his aristocratic grace. 

“Do you remember the first time we danced like this?” Cal said. 

Dorcas did remember. It was at the club that she sometimes performed at. She’d met his brother and some of his old school friends that night. Recalling the memory now was an odd sensation, as if looking at a movie. Someone else’s life, someone else’s recollections. 

“I wouldn’t have dared to believe it if someone told me that three years later that beautiful girl would become my wife,” he said, his breath tickling her neck and giving her goosebumps. 

She assumed that familiarity and time bred apathy among couples. She was always surprised to realize that it was entirely the opposite with her and Cal. It was true that she was not attracted to Cal, didn’t even love him when they’d married. But over the years, his constancy and faithfulness won her heart every day. 

“And I wouldn’t have believed that fifteen years later, I would be completely mad about you,” she added, her voice low. 

Her mind traveled to firsts other than dancing. She was keenly aware of how public a space the Savoy Ballroom was and how much she desired to be alone with her handsome husband. 

She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “You won’t believe who I saw leaving the hospital today?” 

“Who?” Cal asked, rather reluctant to be distracted from his own thoughts. 

Dorcas had to pull back a little to look up at Cal. “Professor Dumbledore.” 

She noticed that Cal was not surprised by the person she named. 

“He was there to see me.” 

Dorcas was the one to be surprised. “To see you? Is all well with him? He’s not ill, is he?”

Although Professor Dumbledore would rank rather middling on her list of favorite teachers, she was concerned all the same.

She knew that Professor Dumbledore was an important influence over Cal’s formative years in school, being his head of house and something of a coach to the Gryffindor Quidditch team. If the professor was ailing, she knew Cal would take it very hard. 

“He seems in perfect health to me.” Cal spun Dorcas with the music and smiled lightly. It put Dorcas’s fears to rest. “He came to see me for a different reason. He is interested in the house-elf.” 

Dorcas wasn’t sure what she’d expected Cal to say, but it certainly was not this. 

“With Hokey? Why?” she was baffled by this bit of news. 

“He wondered if she had made enough of a recovery to try the elixir on.” 

Dorcas couldn’t see the connection at first. Why was Professor Dumbledore concerned with Hokey? But, she realized, the Minister himself had ordered Hokey’s release from the Containment Ward of the DRCMC. She’d seen this in Roman Flint’s mind clearly enough. Who else could pull the Minister’s strings but the ubiquitous professor? But to what end? What could Hokey offer that Professor Dumbledore was interested in? 

“He wants to know who framed her?” Dorcas’s voice was suddenly low and conspiratorial. 

“I think so,” Cal confirmed. 

“What did you tell him?” There was an edge to her voice that she couldn’t quite mask. It wasn’t intended for Cal, but he was the unfortunate recipient. 

“Am I in trouble for speaking to our old teacher?” 

“No,” Dorcas said, taking a deep breath and exhaling. “You’re not in trouble. I wonder why he decided to speak to you about her.” 

Cal shrugged and swept her around the dance floor. “He’s a smart man. He knew he’d get further with me than with you.” 

“Did he?” Dorcas asked, her eyebrows raised. 

“Did he what?” Cal asked, the hand on her waist was moving lower. 

She caught his arm and moved his hand back to an appropriate position. 

“Get further with you?” 

“No,” Cal said. “I told him that he would have to convince my partner of the necessity of using the elixir on the house-elf.”

Dorcas knew that Hokey’s improved health would renew Gideon’s requests that Dorcas retrieve the real memory of Hepzibah Smith’s murder. It wasn’t as if Dorcas was opposed to bringing the real killer to justice. She just didn’t want to take any risks with the fragile house-elf. Now that Professor Dumbledore was adding his voice to the request, Dorcas wondered how she could possibly keep up the resistance.

“Do you think she’s strong enough?” Dorcas asked. 

“It’s a gamble. The elixir is designed to work on human adults. Hokey weighs a fraction of what a human does. We’ve never tested it on her species. We don’t know much about the magic they possess. What if she’s got physiological magic protecting her mind?”

Dorcas thought about this as they danced. Cal’s hand returned to her backside. 

“The Memory Charm wouldn’t have worked on her if she had magical protections around her mind,” Dorcas responded, thinking out loud. 

“Sounds like Dumbledore won’t need to work all that hard to convince you,” Cal said, kissing her ear. 

“I wonder why he’s so interested in Hokey. What has it got to do with him?” 

Cal ceased kissing her. “Can we not talk about Dumbledore? He’s a real mood-killer.” 

Dorcas laughed. 

“Take me home, then.”

Cal smiled rakishly. “I can do better than that,” he replied, pulling a hotel room key from his pocket. 

“Do you think the others will mind if we sneak off?” Dorcas looked around for the other two couples. 

“Do you really care?” Cal’s hand on Dorcas’s backside gave a provocative squeeze and they left the ballroom for the lifts in the lobby. 

:::

10 March 1940 Hospital Wing, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Cherry waited outside of the infirmary’s doors. She’d told Dorcas on numerous occasions that she hated hospitals and “bloody business”. Dorcas was glad to be leaving the hospital wing today, and glad that she would not have to subject her friend to visiting her bedside here any longer. 

In her own clothes once again, Dorcas felt completely healed and rested. Though, she remembered no more about her fateful trip to the Owlery than she had when Cal had first asked her. 

“I bet you’re pleased to be out of there at long last?” Cherry asked in her usually bubbly tone. 

“I am,” Dorcas agreed, picking up her pace once past the hospital’s entrance, as if she would be dragged back if she didn’t make a hasty retreat. 

“So,” Cherry began as they walked down the corridor. “No new memories, then?” 

“None,” Dorcas responded. 

After ten days in the hospital wing, she hoped she’d be able to remember more. 

“Did Cal tell you that Professor Dippet thought he’d done that to you?” 

Dorcas stopped walking and stared at Cherry in shock. 

“Why would he think that?” she asked Cherry, a note of panic in her voice. She couldn’t think of a person less likely to hurt another student in the school than Cal Meadowes. And she felt extremely guilty that an association with her had gotten him into trouble. 

“Madam Higgins saw some bruises on you that didn’t look accidental. Cal was with you when you went to the hospital wing. I guess she suspected that he’d hurt you and then taken you there to cover it up.”

“That’s nonsense,” Dorcas said, angry at the nurse’s meddling. 

She felt lightheaded with a number of emotions. Indignation on Cal’s behalf, frustration with herself for casting suspicion on her friend who had done nothing more sinister than show concern for her well being, and finally hopelessness that she may never remember the entire truth of how she fell and injured herself in the Owlery. 

She wished she’d never acted on the impulse to send that letter at night. A letter that obviously wasn’t important enough to risk all of the damage that she’d caused. A letter so inconsequential that she couldn’t even remember who she was sending it to or what it was about. 

Cherry wrapped an arm around her shoulders and began walking again. 

They didn’t say anymore on the subject of Dorcas’s accident. Dorcas allowed Cherry to chatter while they walked without hearing what she said. 

“Well,” Cherry finally pulled her from her own guilty musings when they reached the Ravenclaw common room entrance. “Here’s where I leave you. Remember what Madam Higgins told you. Go straight to bed. No reading. No homework.”

Dorcas nodded and thanked Cherry for the company before answering the bronze doorknocker’s riddle and entering Ravenclaw Tower. 

Few students were in the common room because it was dinner time on a Wednesday. The small group of Ravenclaws that were assembled stared at her in mild curiosity. She wondered what had been said about her in her absence. 

She climbed the stairs to her dormitory, trying hard not to relive the confusion and pain she’d felt the last time she was in this place, after waking from her accident with no recollection of it. 

She saw Bing on the window’s ledge next to her bed eating a moth, but otherwise the room was deserted. Dorcas heaved a sigh of relief for that small mercy. She moved toward her bed and threw back the covers. But she was feeling defiant toward Madam Higgins and her orders. It was unfair for the nurse to parade her assumptions as fact and involve Cal in Dorcas’s accident. What if he decided that it was more trouble to be Dorcas’s friend now than it was worth? 

Reflexively, she plunged her hand into the pocket of her skirt where she kept the letter that Cal had received from the publisher. Maybe his writing to them to uncover the address of the Wingate book’s author was his last act of friendship. She wouldn’t blame him if he started to put some distance between them. 

She grabbed her school bag and left Ravenclaw Tower. 

:::

10 March 1940 Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

When Dorcas arrived at her study corner, Tom was already deep into homework. 

“Hey, Tom,” Dorcas said, taking her seat and unpacking her school books, parchment, quill, and ink. 

Dorcas could tell by the expression he wore that he hadn’t expected to see her here. 

“You’re out,” he said with a smile. 

“Yeah,” she said, her mind was still troubled by the bit of news that Cherry had relayed. 

Tom, picking up on her dark tone said, “What’s wrong?” He set aside the essay he was writing and turned to her. 

She looked at Tom, who was sitting next to her, patiently waiting to hear what was bothering her. She wanted to talk to someone, but she reckoned that person should be Cal. She didn’t think it would be right to unburden herself to Tom. At least not with this particular issue. 

“Nothing,” she said, pulling the publisher’s letter from her pocket and copying the address contained inside of it onto one side of a piece of parchment. Flipping it over, she composed a letter to Harriet Finnigan. 

Tom did not push Dorcas to confide in him and Dorcas was grateful for their easy manner around each other. 

She explained in the letter that she’d read Harriet’s book and was curious about Wingate because her uncle was a patient there in 1925 or 1926. She explained only a surface amount of detail about Morty and his difficulties since leaving the hospital. She reasoned that if Ms. Finnigan was to understand why she sought information about the hospital, then she might be more inclined to dispense it. Finally, she asked Harriet if she knew anything about the particular spells used on the patients there. She had only just decided as she was writing that of all of the information that she wished to know about Wingate Institution, it was the spells she wished to learn more about than anything else. 

She reread the letter, making sure that she conveyed everything that she wished to convey. When she was satisfied with it, she folded it so that the address was visible on the outside. With her wand she cast a spell that sealed the letter and then stared at it on the table top. 

“Do you want me to post that for you?” Tom asked, sensing her apprehension as she eyed the letter. 

Dorcas shook her head. “No. I can’t be afraid of the Owlery forever. That’s stupid.” But she knew her tone gave her away. 

“I’ll go with you, then,” Tom said, rolling up his essay and stuffing it into his bag. 

Dorcas packed her things too and slipped the letter into her pocket next to the letter that Cal had given her from the publisher. 

More solicitous of her than he normally was, Tom pulled Dorcas’s chair out for her. She almost said something to him about this, wanting to explain to him that he didn’t need to fear that she would suddenly fall and injure herself again. But she didn’t. 

His kindness didn’t deserve her rebuke. 

“I thought of something else I overheard Mrs. Cole saying to Jenny one night,” Tom said, picking up a conversation that they’d apparently started already. 

Dorcas was confused. “Mrs. Cole? Jenny?” 

These were not names that were familiar to her. Tom examined her closely. 

“You don’t remember me telling you about the woman who runs the orphanage?” 

Without meaning to, Dorcas reached a hand to the back of her head where she’d hit it. 

“I’m sorry, Tom,” she apologized. “I still don’t remember some things from when I fell.” 

‘Well, I’ll remind you,” he said, taking her arm and pulling her closer to him as they left the warm confines of the school and crossed the windy courtyard to the tower ahead. 

“I sneaked into Mrs. Cole’s office one night and found my file. My mother requested that I be named for my father and her father. Tom Marvolo. That’s all I’ve got to go on.” 

“And your last name.” Dorcas knew this was very little to investigate, but she wanted to give him hope. “It’s either your father’s name or your mother’s.” 

“Yes,” Tom agreed. “I also remembered Mrs. Cole, that’s the lady who runs the orphanage,” he filled in with a note of dislike. “Talking to one of the girls who helps out around there, Jenny. I always get blamed for things that happen at the orphanage,” He continued. 

Dorcas knew that children displayed signs of magic that were involuntary. It must have been very confusing and hard on Tom being conspicuous in this way around all of those Muggle children and staff. 

“Mrs. Cole said to Jenny that I must have some of my mother’s talent for mischief. She suspected my mum was from a traveling circus.” 

Whatever Dorcas had thought Tom was going to confide in her, it wasn’t that. But, it was as likely a story as any concerning the mystery of Tom’s parentage. 

“Well, we can look up Muggle circuses,” Dorcas said. This was a little more to go on than just a name. “Do wizards have circuses?” 

“I’ve no idea,” Tom said. He seemed content to let the subject drop. 

Dorcas sensed some relief in Tom’s demeanor as she held his arm and came to a stop at the Owlery steps. She paused at the prospect of climbing those treacherous stone steps again. The memory of falling on them still terrified her. 

She felt Tom squeeze her hand as it rested on his arm. 

“Give me the letter,” he said. 

She dug it out of her skirt pocket and handed it to him with thanks. 

“Be back in a minute,” Tom said, racing up the steps. 

Dorcas wanted to shout a warning to him to be careful, her apprehension mounting as he disappeared around a curve in the stone wall. She tucked her hands under her arms and waited in the windy courtyard at the base of the steps. 

Tom’s footsteps announced his descent and she saw him moments later. 

“Who was that letter to?” he asked offhand, throwing an arm around Dorcas’s shoulders and returning to the less drafty corridor. 

“The author of that book about the hospital.” 

Tom nodded but said nothing. They walked in silence back to Ravenclaw Tower. 

“Meet me tonight,” Tom entreated. “I know it’s a school night, but I’ve missed you.” 

Dorcas felt an anxiety rise in her unexpectedly at the request. The fall had shaken her much more than she’d admitted to herself. When she thought about all of the places that she’d sneaked around with Tom and all of the times they could have been hurt, she became alarmed. She swallowed hard. 

“Tom, I can’t.” She used the excuse that always did the trick when Cal asked her about her injuries when he’d visit her in the hospital. “I’m tired.” 

She felt bad now in hindsight, casting off Cal’s questions. What she had taken as an overbearing need to protect her had really been a request for information to absolve himself. She wished she hadn't involved Cal in any of this mess. She should have taken herself to the hospital wing directly after her fall. It was stupid, really, not to have done. 

Tom looked a little downtrodden at her refusal, but let the matter rest. He said goodbye and left her in the fourth floor corridor. 

:::

23 November 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas sat down at the desk in her home office with a cup of coffee and a stack of patient files. She was having a hard time concentrating on the tasks that she needed to accomplish today. Her mind kept wandering to last night and she would promptly forget what she’d been doing. 

The coffee should help her to focus. 

She took a sip and opened a file. She was instantly distracted by the memory of Cal tossing her onto the hotel room bed, kneeling at her feet to remove one of her shoes and then the other, kissing her ankles as he undid each strap.

She blushed and renewed her efforts at studying the patient notes before her. 

The doorbell rang. She closed the file in frustration. Her time to work through patient notes and update files was so limited these days. She couldn’t waste time daydreaming. 

“I’ll get it,” Theresa said, rushing past her wiping her hands on her apron as she went. 

Dorcas could tell by her tone when she greeted the visitor, that Theresa knew him. 

Gideon stepped through the door and Dorcas wondered if they had an appointment that she had not remembered. Surprisingly, Albus Dumbledore stepped through the door behind him and into her home. 

Her old professor saw her standing in the doorway of her office just off the entryway and smiled. The smile was so disarming that Dorcas remembered all of his interesting lessons and the curiosity he had inspired in her instantly. At the same time, she saw his pleasant demeanor as a weapon that he employed to bring down the shield of any foe as completely as  _ Expilliarmus _ . 

“Professor!” Theresa enthused. She clearly had more positive memories of the old teacher than Dorcas did. 

“Miss Vance,” Dumbledore said, addressing Theresa in a way that Dorcas had never heard Theresa called. “A pleasant surprise.” 

“Allen, now,” Gideon corrected Dumbledore. 

Dumbledore’s eyes creased as his smile widened, laughing at his old habit. “My mistake. A teacher always forgets that his students leave school. I cannot help but to picture the precocious Miss Vance that was. Forgive me, Mrs. Allen.” 

Gideon’s eyes found Dorcas behind Theresa’s shoulder. “Dr. Meadowes, may we have a word?” 

Dorcas remembered her conversation with Cal the previous evening about Professor Dumbledore showing up at the hospital and wondered at her own surprise now seeing him on her doorstep. She should have expected a visit from her old teacher. 

“Certainly,” Dorcas stepped out of the doorway of her office and gestured for the two men to enter. 

If she wanted to present a professional atmosphere to the professor and her colleague, Billy and Wren crashing into Gideon’s leg with a hobby horse put an end to that illusion resoundingly. 

“Precious,” Dumbledore said, laughing at the pair as Gideon stumbled into Dorcas’s office door. 

Theresa righted the children, taking one each by the hand. “I apologize, Counselor,” she said to Gideon. 

He gave her a warm smile and begged her not to worry. “I’ve battled fiercer foes,” he added, ruffling Billy’s light brown curls. 

“Professor,” Dorcas said. “Theresa’s son Billy, and my youngest, Wren.” 

“She looks like her father,” Dumbledore said, the pleasant smile never leaving his face. “While your oldest favors you, Miss Clerey.” 

Dorcas smiled, choosing not to correct his choice of appellation. Many people made this observation of her children. She motioned again for the professor and the solicitor to enter her office. 

“What was it you wanted to speak to me about?” she asked innocently. In her mind she was gearing up to take a stand for Hokey’s well being. 

Billy attached himself to Gideon’s leg, making his departure from the entryway impossible. Theresa’s embarrassment was apparent. 

“Why don’t we go to the park?” Theresa suggested, prying her son from Gideon’s trouser leg. 

“Come to the park with us, Mr. Prewett,” Billy invited enthusiastically, unwilling to let go of him. 

Gideon looked to Dumbledore, who was still smiling. “A better offer has been presented to you, Counselor. You would be a fool indeed to pass it up.” 

“Well,” Gideon said. “I guess, if you don’t need me to--” 

Dumbledore cut him off. “Miss Clerey and I will get on quite well without you, Counselor.” 

Dorcas closed the door to her office as Gideon and Theresa wrestled the two children into coats. She heard the front door shut and the commotion outside fade as the party left. 

“Miss Clerey,” Dumbledore began once he was seated on the patient couch. 

Dorcas sat beside him. “Please, Professor. Call me Dorcas. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“No thank you, Dorcas,” Dumbledore said. 

Dorcas could not get over the weird sensation of seeing her professor--well, now the  _ headmaster _ \--of her old school seated in her home office. It was truly a surreal experience. 

“I met with your husband yesterday,” he began. 

Dorcas nodded. “He told me.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore continued. “Then you know that I am interested in a certain house-elf that you and Counselor Prewett worked to release from the Ministry’s containment cages.”

“We both know you had more to do with Hokey’s release than either Gideon or I did,” Dorcas said. She believed being direct was the best policy for this particular conversation. 

Dorcas would have been curious to use her particular gift on Dumbledore’s mind at this moment so that she could be truly enlightened as to his motives concerning Hokey. She knew this was futile. She had never been able to read Dumbledore’s thoughts. There was a name for the particular skill he employed: Occlumency. 

“You have always been insightful,” Dumbledore commented. She believed he meant it as a compliment. “You see a great deal that others miss.”

She wondered if this was a hint at her ability. She chose not to answer. 

“Why do her memories concern you, Professor?” Dorcas asked. Her hands were folded passively in her lap, her expression equally passive but curious. 

“I believe they concern us all,” Dumbledore said cryptically. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on more specifics,” she countered. 

“The death of Hepzibah Smith is a troubling continuation of events that, I fear, spell great danger for the Wizarding community at large,” he continued. 

“How ominous,” Dorcas responded blandly. 

She wondered if the cataclysmic rise to fame that Dumbledore had experienced after the stunning events of 1945 had made him more insufferable than ever. Or had he always been so? Time may have rendered Dorcas’s memories of her eccentric teacher more kindly to her in the intervening decade. 

Dumbledore’s beatific smile never left his features. But Dorcas could tell that he was deciding how to proceed after her lackluster reply. She was growing impatient. She didn’t like chess, figuratively or literally. 

“You, perhaps, know that Ms. Smith was a distant relation to the Hogwarts founder, Helga Hufflepuff?” 

Dorcas nodded. The papers had reported the scandal of her death and made much of this familial connection. Dorcas had also been inside of the Smith home in Chiswick. It was a veritable showcase of Hufflepuff heirlooms. 

“I cannot say more,” Dumbledore preceded cautiously. “Only that, I know Hokey is innocent of the murder of her mistress. I suspect the real murderer, but I can only confirm that with the help of your ingenious elixir.” 

She made a note of the flattery he used to persuade her. But she also noticed that he needed her  _ elixir’s _ help. He was making it plain that he did not want nor need her to be present. She wondered at his taking the time to talk to her at all. Why not just break into her office and steal what he needed, like a burglar? 

Dorcas disabused Dumbledore of the notion that the use of her elixir could be anything less than with her consent and with her presence. 

“Cal and I are making a house call on Hokey the day after tomorrow. If I believe that she is well enough, I might consider attempting to retrieve the memory for you.” 

Dumbledore kept his passive smile plastered to his face, but Dorcas could sense both relief and apprehension from him. 

“But, understand me, professor. If I feel that this will harm her in any way, I won’t do it,” 

“I understand you,” Dumbledore responded. “Perfectly.”

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

15 March 1940 Third Floor Corridor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas wasn’t trying to avoid her friends, but she found that any time she was surrounded by a group of people, the conversation returned again and again to her accident. 

She wished everyone would forget about it. She almost went as far as wishing that someone else could get hurt just to take some of the attention off of her. Then Dorcas would feel incredibly selfish and wicked and berate herself for her thoughts. 

Teachers were cautious with her in class, telling her to sit out practicing spells if concentrating pained her head. Professors Maynard and Binns both insisted that Dorcas excuse herself from essays in Charms and History of Magic. 

Her head of house, Professor Lin, asked to speak with Dorcas in her office just this morning after breakfast. Even though Dorcas did not take Arithmancy and had never spoken to the teacher, she insisted that Dorcas confide in her the true nature of her accident. 

Dorcas was ready to forget the whole matter and thought that everyone else should forget it as well. It became frustrating to be asked the same questions, give the same answers, and receive the same skeptical looks over and over again. 

Her head was pounding. 

Avoiding others was made especially difficult this afternoon because the weather was bleak. Most students were spending their free time gathered in classrooms playing games. Those that were not in classrooms milled about in the halls. 

Dorcas thought that the only place she may be able to escape the others was under the covers of her own bed. As she kept walking, the crowds thinned around the Divination corridor. Dorcas was fortunate to spot a small niche beneath the spiral stairs leading to the Astronomy classroom. 

She dropped her bag on the floor beside her, curled her legs into her chest and placed her forehead against the cool stone of the wall. Closing her eyes, Dorcas was grateful for the quiet. 

She may have dozed for a moment. She was awakened abruptly by a chilly breeze that wafted over her. Startled, she sat up and looked around. 

A tall, ephemeral form drifted over her before noticing her on the ground. Dorcas recognized her as the Grey Lady of Ravenclaw Tower. 

“My apologies,” she said to Dorcas. “Students everywhere. No peace to be had at all!”

“I’m sorry to have invaded your quiet place,” Dorcas said, reaching for her bag and standing at once. 

“Be seated, child,” the Grey Lady said, not unkindly. “I see you are looking for solitude as well.” 

“Yes,” Dorcas said, sitting in the little niche beneath the stairs once more. 

“You’re in Ravenclaw House, are you not?” the ghost asked, surveying Dorcas’s uniform for confirmation. 

“I am,” Dorcas answered. 

The Grey Lady looked off down the corridor and then back at Dorcas. Her air of indifference slipped somewhat with this admission, as if Dorcas had become a modicum more interesting for her membership in the Grey Lady’s house. 

“You’re the one I always see sneaking around with the beautiful Slytherin boy out of bounds,” she said, her eyes narrowing on Dorcas. 

Dorcas couldn’t think of what to say. It was pointless to deny what the Grey Lady already knew to be true. If Tom were here, Dorcas was certain he would have objected straight away to being referred to as the “beautiful Slytherin boy”. 

The Grey Lady must have seen how wrong-footed Dorcas became at this realization. In the next moment she said, “You have no need to worry, poppet. I won’t go telling Professor Lin on you. I keep my own council.” 

“Thank you,” Dorcas managed, making it sound like a question. 

“What’s got you hiding out under the stairs?” The Grey Lady continued, seeming to warm to Dorcas. 

“I wanted a break from people just now,” Dorcas said, realizing this sounded rude. She blushed with embarrassment. 

The Grey Lady didn’t take offense. Instead, she nodded. “I know what you mean. The living can be very tedious. Anyone in particular you’re avoiding?” She scanned the corridor again and looked back at Dorcas. 

Dorcas was about to say no. But, she conceded that she hadn’t had a conversation with Cal yet about her part in getting him into trouble with the headmaster. She’d had opportunities to apologize to him, but had not done it. 

The Grey Lady nodded and looked at her fingernails, feigning boredom. “I see. You keep your own council as well. My unsolicited advice?” She looked at Dorcas, the directness of her gaze made her extremely intimidating. 

Dorcas nodded, attending to her words carefully. 

“Don’t leave things unsaid that you must say,” the Grey Lady finally entoned. “No one else can know your mind unless you speak it.” 

She wondered if the Grey Lady had a gift for sight similar to hers. She seemed to be looking directly into Dorcas’s thoughts. Her face must have shown her surprise. 

“Clerey, there you are,” Cal said, coming down the corridor toward her and the Grey Lady. 

The ghost of Ravenclaw Tower turned to Cal as he spoke. Then she turned back to Dorcas. Under her breath, so that Dorcas alone could hear her, she said, “My, my.  _ Two _ beautiful boys. But you do have your hands full, Dorcas Clerey!” Her eyebrows raised at Dorcas in appreciation. 

Dorcas opened her mouth to deny that either of the two were in fact hers. Her cheeks reddened and she closed her mouth. 

Cal spoke instead. 

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He addressed the Grey Lady politely. Turning to Dorcas, he said, “May I have a word?” 

“She’s all yours.” The Grey Lady bowed and moved off through the wall. 

Cal waited a beat to be sure he and Dorcas were alone in the corridor. He sat, leaning against the wall next to her. 

“Are you avoiding me?” Cal asked, his expression was one of worry. 

Dorcas wasn’t avoiding Cal specifically. She was avoiding anyone who might renew their interrogations of her memories. 

“No,” Dorcas said, not entirely truthfully. “I just don’t want to answer any more questions about that night.” She fiddled with the hem of her skirt so that she didn’t have to look at him. 

“Then I won’t ask you any questions. I promise,” Cal said earnestly. 

“Actually, I want to apologize,” Dorcas said after a pause. She wanted to take the Grey Lady’s advice and speak her mind, to clear the air. 

“For what?” Cal looked at her. 

Dorcas’s eyes flicked from her hands to his face only briefly before returning to her lap. 

“For getting you mixed up in my accident,” Dorcas rushed on. “I should have gone to the hospital wing the night before. But I didn’t and since you brought me there, Madam Higgins suspected you.” 

“Oh,” Cal was surprised. “Is that why you haven’t been talking to me?” 

Dorcas did not answer and did not look at him. She knew his sincere and open face would make her feel guilty if she saw it. 

“Yes, I guess it is,” Dorcas admitted. “Cherry told me that Professor Dippet questioned you. That Madam Higgins thought you’d hurt me.” 

Cal sighed. “Cherry shouldn’t have said anything. It’s all cleared up now. You have nothing to be sorry about.” 

Dorcas didn’t feel any better for having been absolved. 

Finally, Cal stood and offered Dorcas a hand up. She took it and he pulled her close to him. 

“You can say anything at all to me, Clerey,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I’m your friend and that’s not going to change.” 

Dorcas couldn’t find the words for a proper reply. She settled for a small smile instead. 

Cal stooped to retrieve Dorcas’s school bag. “Come on, let’s find the others.” 

:::

25 November 1957 Smith Residence, Chiswick, London

Dorcas and Cal had already carefully discussed the terms of using the Ex-Nebulae Elixir on Hokey. Cal’s compliance was important. 

Dorcas would not have Dumbledore using Cal to persuade her if she judged it too risky. 

Yes, a killer might walk free. But Dorcas would not be a killer too. A killer again, she amended in her own mind. 

She held her bag tight as she Apparated onto the front stoop of Hepzibah Smith’s House. She had carefully packed it and repacked it. This was the only outward sign of her apprehension. Inside, Dorcas felt frantic. She felt that she was being asked to do the impossible. How had she become involved in a plot with Professor Dumbledore? Her professional curiosity had gotten the better of her, that’s how. 

In the lab in her basement last night, she and Cal mixed a special concoction just for Hokey. It was an extremely diluted elixir. One that Dorcas hoped, the weakened house-elf could tolerate reasonably and still be effective enough to burn off the false memory to reveal the truth. There were three phials of the doctored potion in her bag. She also had extra phials to collect the memories and three syringes for the application of the elixir. Sleeping Draught, Reviving Tonic, and Pepperup Potion for good measure. 

Cal joined her on the stoop of the townhouse and knocked. 

Thaddeus answered immediately, making Dorcas think of a Golden Retriever that was anxiously awaiting an expected guest. He showed them to the guest room where Hokey had been resting since her release from the Ministry. 

Dorcas had watched the elf’s transformation over the last few weeks hopefully. Hokey’s recovery had been nothing short of remarkable. When she’d first seen Hokey at the Ministry, Dorcas believed her to be on the precipice of death. Now, she had to be restrained from resuming her household duties. 

Cal crossed to the elf’s bedside and began checking various vitals. He called them out to Dorcas; blood pressure, lung scan, reflexes. All benchmarks for proceeding with the experimental process were ticked off mentally by Dorcas. 

Part of her didn’t want Hokey to pass the screening. The house-elf was still old. The elixir was still unproven on a non-human being. Dorcas was nervous to carry out the task. Her nerves were made worse when Professor Dumbledore and Gideon Prewett walked into the room, having just arrived. 

“Okay, Clerey,” Cal said. “The patient’s all yours.” 

Dorcas took Cal’s place beside the bed. She laid out the items from her handbag on a tray that was sitting on the bedside table. As she prepared, she spoke to Hokey. 

“Hokey, I’m so glad to see you looking so well. It pleases us all to know you’re recovering.” 

Hokey looked at each face staring back at her and beamed at the praise. “Hokey thanks Miss Dorcas.” 

Dorcas looked to Cal, who had moved to the left hand side of the bed. She gave him a slight nod. At the gesture, he sat beside Hokey and held her hand, still burdened by the heavy Admonitor cuffs. 

Dorcas took her right hand. 

“Professor Dumbledore,” Dorcas nodded in the professor’s direction for Hokey’s benefit, “knows that Hokey did not kill her mistress. He would very much like to know who your mistress’s real killer is.” 

In anticipation of the blows that Hokey was sure to inflict on herself, Dorcas held her right hand and Cal held her left hand. Hokey thrashed ineffectually with her legs, but gave up when Thaddeus told her to stop. 

“Hokey is a wicked elf,” she said, feebly resisting her restraints. 

“Hokey, you are the very best house-elf,” Dumbledore spoke for the first time since entering. Though he may have meant the words sincerely, Dorcas could only hear flattery as a means to an end. It made her want to grind her teeth. She resisted looking at him. 

“Hokey,” Dorcas continued, hoping to cut off any more of Dumbledore’s interference. “Will you consent to using this potion,” Dorcas held up a syringe of the diluted mixture, “to uncover the truth about how your mistress died?” 

Dorcas wished she didn’t have to inject the poor creature. The house-elf’s eyes grew as wide as saucers when she saw the needle. 

She looked again to her master. “If Master Thaddeus wishes Hokey to do this, then she will.” 

Thaddeus, prompted by Dumbledore, answered, “Yes, Hokey. That is what I wish.” 

Dorcas placed her wand in her hip pocket. She saw Cal feeling the small wrist of the house-elf once again for her pulse. He began counting silently while he followed his wristwatch. 

“Professor,” Dorcas said, finally acknowledging her old teacher’s presence. “If we can only retrieve one memory, which would you choose? Do you want confirmation of the killer, or the memory he altered of his meeting with Ms. Smith.” 

Dumbledore looked to Gideon. They silently debated in this glance. 

Dorcas cut in. 

“Understand. This is incredibly risky, what we’re about to do. There are two memories at least that are altered. Do you want one or the other? If Hokey has an adverse reaction to the elixir, I will not try it a second time.” 

Gideon and Dumbledore looked at Dorcas and then back to each other. Gideon nodded in answer to a question that Dumbledore didn’t ask. 

“I would most like to have the memory of the conversation between the killer and Ms. Smith,” Dumbledore finally answered. “But, Dorcas, it is vital that we gain as much intelligence as we can. Both memories are essential.” 

“They may be essential,” Dorcas argued. “But they will not come at the expense of my patient.” 

“Dorcas,” Gideon interjected for the first time since arriving. “She’s my client. She’s Thaddeus’s house-elf.”

Cal spoke from Hokey’s other side. He’d listened to the exchange carefully and had remained silent until now. 

“Hokey became Dorcas’s patient the moment you asked for her help.” Cal’s voice was diplomatic, even passive, but authoritative at the same moment. 

“Caleb--” Dumbledore began. 

Cal cut him off, surprising Dorcas. “Professor, you’ve voiced your objections to me. I listened. But Dorcas is the expert in this matter. We must let her judgement be the best guide.” 

Without further argument, Dorcas turned back to Hokey. 

“Hokey, close your eyes and imagine the evening when the visitor came to call on your mistress with the pink roses.” 

Hokey did as instructed. “I showed him into the parlor. My mistress was already waiting to receive him,” the elf squeaked and recited the scene that was before her eyes. 

Dorcas carefully placed the needle against the thin flesh of Hokey’s bicep and inserted it into the muscle. 

Hokey gasped but didn’t open her eyes. 

“Hokey,” Dorcas instructed softly, setting the spent syringe on the tray and picking up an empty glass phial. “Now you’re going to move the scene aside as if you’re drawing a curtain back.” 

Hokey made to lift her left hand from Cal’s grip. Dorcas nodded to him to release her. She made the gesture that Dorcas had described. 

The house-elf’s demeanor changed instantly. “I see the man. He’s been to visit my mistress many times. His eyes flash red. He frightens Hokey.” 

Dorcas fumbled the phial and dropped it among the bed clothes, she was so nervous that her fingers of her right hand failed to grip the bottle. She retrieved it hastily and held her wand to Hokey’s temple. She drew out a single silvery silken thread. 

Tipping the memory into the phial, she stoppered it and placed it in her pocket. 

Had she imagined the eager, even fervent look that passed over Dumbledore’s expression? She brushed it aside. 

“You may open your eyes and leave the memory.” 

Hokey became alert once more. Dorcas lifted her chin and looked into the bulbous eyes, studying their dilated pupils. 

She looked to Cal. 

“Heart rate is elevated, no more than normal considering what she probably saw.” 

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Dorcas said, turning and handing a Sleeping Draught to Cal. 

Dumbledore swept around to the side of the bed that Cal was on and placed a hand on his arm. “Just a moment, Healer Meadowes, Dr. Meadowes.” 

Cal and Dorcas paused. Gideon shifted from one foot to the other. Thaddeus looked at Dumbledore. 

“Hokey did rather well, did she not?” the professor encouraged, staying Cal’s hand before he could administer the potion that would cause the house-elf to nod off to sleep before any more memories could be retrieved. 

“Yes,” Cal replied. “But, it’s prudent to study this memory in order to gauge the effectiveness of the elixir. We had to dilute it quite a bit considering Hokey’s small frame.”

Dorcas placed her wand into the pocket that held the newly gained memory, her palm flattened protectively over it against her hip. 

Gideon spoke next. “You’ve proven that she can withstand the elixir’s effects. We must have the memory of Ms. Smith’s death.” He looked to Thaddeus as an ally. 

Thaddeus made no move to agree or disagree, keeping his eyes on the white sheet at Hokey’s feet. 

“A killer,” the professor reminded Dorcas. “A killer is on the loose. Ms. Smith is only one in a string of murders. There will be more.” 

Dorcas shook her head in protest. “It will have to wait. We can retrieve the other memory tomorrow.” 

“I must insist,” Dumbledore said finally. 

His blue eyes were leveled at Dorcas. That stare made her feel eleven years old once more. She forgot her own training, her own expertise, her own research. She forgot her own agency. So insistent was the gaze that Professor Dumbledore leveled at her, she wanted to obey unquestioningly. 

Dorcas looked to Hokey who stared back at her. She would indeed have said that the procedure was a success. She did not know yet what the quality of the memory in her pocket was. It could be complete rubbish, rendered ineffective by the weakness of the potion. She couldn’t be sure. 

“Hokey,” Dorcas said. “Are you willing to try again to retrieve another memory?” 

Her eyes flicked to her husband again in silent instruction. He secured Hokey’s left hand and she held the elf’s right. 

The house-elf looked to her master once more. Thaddeus nodded his consent. 

“Hokey,” Dorcas instructed. “I want you to picture yourself in the kitchen downstairs making your mistress’s evening cocoa.” 

:::

9 July 1940 Galbraith Street, Poplar, London

Dorcas’s first year at Hogwarts came to an uneventful end. As she had hoped, she became less of an object of interest over time, as other events eclipsed her accident in the Owlery. But she did not venture into the school corridors or out onto the grounds with Tom for midnight explorations anymore. She could not shake the fear that some far worse accident would befall her for sneaking around, even if she had a friend there with her. 

Exams had approached quickly and given her the excuse of extra studying and the desire for a full night’s sleep in order to avoid meeting Tom out of bounds. Cal had been briefly cast in suspicion for taking her injured to the hospital wing. She did not want Tom to face a similar inquisition if she were to fall again. 

Dorcas tugged on the string that held a cumbersome box with a gas mask inside. Life had changed in Poplar since she’d left in September. This newest accessory was a testament to that fact. She looked around at all of the shop windows, taped with Xs across the panes in anticipation of shattering glass from bombings. Looking up, Dorcas could see the ominous barrage balloons floating above the East End as a deterrent to enemy aircraft. 

Her other hand held fast to the hand of her uncle. Morty fidgeted with his own gas mask strung across his shoulder and chest. Dorcas knew that her uncle could not easily tolerate a change of routine or the introduction of a new item of clothing. The gas mask represented both. Dorcas was bracing for the scene that her uncle would inevitably make. But it was important for him to get out and experience things. His life wouldn’t consist of the second floor flat on Strattondale and the tiny garden in the back. Dorcas would not accept that small of a world for him. 

Today, she was taking him to the record store. They paused in front of Bell’s Music and peered into the taped windows. Mrs. Bell was nowhere to be seen: a good sign. Another good sign: Dorcas had pocket money today. This was birthday money from her mother and her Uncle Lysander that she had saved for nearly a year in anticipation of this moment. 

Bobby was behind the register and waved to her as she and Morty entered the shop. She pulled her uncle behind her as she made her way to the jazz section of records and plucked Henry Busse at random from the rows of records. She and Morty seemed to be the only patrons in the shop at that moment, another good sign. She made her way to the listening booths in the back, pulling Morty into the one on the far right with her. She placed the wax disk on the turntable and cued up the music. 

The tune had the desired effect on Morty, he sat next to her and settled languidly onto the bench. After a time, he began to tap his feet to the music. 

_ All I do is dream of you the whole night through _

_ With the dawn I still go on and dream of you _

_ You’re every thought, you’re everything _

_ You’re every song I ever sing-- _

Dorcas didn’t know how long the rapping on the glass pane of the booth had been going on. She was wrapped up in the music, as she was wont to do in the little booth in the back of the record store. She stopped singing, embarrassed that someone might have heard her besides Morty, who was used to it. She turned expecting to find a cross Mrs. Bell ready to shoo her and her uncle out of the store. 

“Tom!” Dorcas threw open the listening booth’s door and stared wide eyed at her schoolmate and friend. 

“Hi, Birdie,” Tom said, smiling. 

Besides running into Cal at the hospital at Christmastime, Dorcas had never experienced her school and home life colliding in this way. It was a surreal sensation to see her school friend outside of the context of Hogwarts. 

“What are you doing here?” Dorcas asked, bewildered. 

Tom’s hands were in his pockets and he leaned against the booth that she and her uncle occupied. He shrugged. 

“The same as you, I guess,” Tom answered, still smiling. The look on his face told Dorcas that he was amused at her surprise. 

Dorcas nodded. Stupid question. What else did one do in a record store? 

“We’re listening to Busse,” Dorcas added, aware that the sound of the record was being amplified into the store with the booth’s door open. Bobby looked in her direction. 

She waved Tom into the cramped little booth so that she could close the door again. There was just room on the bench for the three of them. Dorcas was seated between her uncle and Tom. She realized in that moment, that she’d never mentioned Morty to Tom before. 

“Tom,” she said by way of introduction, “this is my Uncle Morty. He lives with me and my mother.” She looked to her right where her uncle sat, trying to take his gas mask out of the box and put it on. 

If she’d been alone with her uncle, she may have given him words of encouragement. It was important for Morty to try to negotiate the complicated apparatus on his own if an air raid should happen. But, Dorcas felt a conspicuous embarrassment at the odd behavior of her uncle because Tom did not know the particulars of his handicap. She placed a hand over the mask and lowered it from Morty’s face. 

“Morty,” Dorcas persisted, “this is my friend from school, Tom.” 

“Hello,” Tom said, extending a hand across Dorcas to her uncle. 

Morty did not acknowledge Tom, instead he snatched his mask out of Dorcas’s hand and put it on. Tom looked to Dorcas with a bemused expression and placed the hand he’d extended across her in his lap. 

“I’m sorry,” Dorcas apologized. “He’s not very comfortable around new people.” 

Tom nodded and changed the subject. “Quite a welcoming party that London’s throwing for Fritz.”

Dorcas was awed by how casually Tom discussed an impending attack on their home. During the previous spring, Belgium, Holland, and finally France had fallen to the German enemy. May, Dorcas remembered, was an especially tense time, even as far removed from the war as Hogwarts was. Many students knew someone personally who was fighting in the war. When Dunkirk was evacuated, many letters came from family members telling students of relatives that were dead or missing. More names were added to the plaque in honor of the war dead outside of the Trophy Room. She remembered that Cal had received such news from his father that his brother’s squadron hadn’t returned from a mission over France and was presumed missing or dead. 

When Dorcas, Morty, and Tom had listened to both sides of the Busse record they exited the booth. 

Dorcas decided to purchase the record. The beats were varied and lively, just the kind of record she would be able to listen to over and over again. Tom and Morty waited for her by the door. She took her purchase from Bobby with a goodbye and left with her friend and her uncle. 

She almost began to ask Tom what he had planned for the rest of his day when an air raid siren somewhere close by blared. Dorcas had never heard the sound before, but knew what it signaled immediately. She grabbed her uncle by the hand. He was still wearing the gas mask and this gave him an odd look of a half-human half-insect. 

“Down here,” Tom pointed to the Tube Station entrance. Others on the street were already racing down the stairs and into the Underground for shelter. 

The pedestrians around them seemed to have taken part in drills before. Many calmly descended and sat on benches as if they were commuters waiting for the Underground on any normal day. Dorcas couldn’t help but to feel thrown into a panic by the terrifying noise of the siren. She felt Tom take the record she was clutching and grab her other hand to lead her and Morty down the tiled stairway and onto the platform. =

They found an isolated corner beside the stairs they had just descended and crouched there. Morty was scrabbling with his mask and pacing, resisting Dorcas’s efforts to help him to sit quietly and wait for the all clear. 

She felt Tom’s hand squeezing her other hand. This reassured her that he was just as disconcerted about the sirens and what they portend as she was. Dorcas pulled Morty in next to her and projected a sense of calm outward from her own mind. Morty relaxed, his head against her chest. Tom also became still and less tense beside her. 

She tried to think of some way to take Morty’s mind off of the commotion of pedestrians fleeing the streets above them and the wailing of the siren. 

“All I do the whole night through is dream of you,” she began to sing. “With the dawn I still go on and dream of you. You’re every thought, you’re everything, you’re every song I ever sing.” 

Tom joined her, adding his voice to hers. “All I do the whole night through is dream of you.” 

:::

25 November 1957 Smith Residence, Chiswick, London

Dorcas looked to her partner. Cal was monitoring Hokey’s blood pressure. When he was certain that Hokey was calm enough, he nodded for Dorcas to continue. 

Dorcas injected the house-elf once more with the diluted Ex-Nebulae Elixir. 

“Now, Hokey. Picture yourself sweeping the false memory aside, drawing back a curtain.”

Hokey reacted differently this time. Instead of imitating the gesture that Dorcas suggested, she began to shake as if frightened by what she saw. 

“Hokey,” Dorcas fought to keep the edge of nervousness from her voice. She struggled to maintain a professional tone. “Hokey, it’s just a memory. Nothing that you see can hurt you.” 

“Mistress!” Hokey squeaked loudly and began to convulse on the pillow that propped her up. 

“Dorcas, the memory must be recovered,” Dumbledore urged. 

Dorcas turned to the carefully arranged tray of potions and instruments. Instead of retrieving an empty phial and siphoning Hokey’s memory, she grabbed the Reviving Tonic instead. Gideon watched her movements and reached for her hand to take the potion from her. 

In the struggle between the two, the phial shattered at Dorcas’s feet. 

Dumbledore moved closer to Cal, stood over him and urged him to take the elf’s memory instead. 

“Please stand back, professor,” Cal said, brushing the request aside. 

He was kneeling next to Hokey as the elf seized violently under the thin sheet, his hands trying to restrain her arms as gently as possible. Dorcas knew he did not want to break any of the elf’s fragile bones, but the Admonitor cuffs were becoming dangerous to the creature. 

“Hokey,” Dorcas called, bending low over Hokey’s face. “You can come out of the memory now.” 

Cal’s right hand moved to his wand and he touched it to Hokey’s temple. The house-elf settled. A faint trail of blood dripped from her nose and onto the pillow. 

“She’s breathing, but it’s faint,” Cal announced to the silent room. 

Dorcas stooped to the ground to clean up the spilled potion and the shattered glass with her wand. She did this more as a precaution to keep herself from acting on the urge to scream at Gideon. 

Gideon seemed to understand this and Dorcas saw his shoes stepping away from her before she heard his voice. 

“Let’s leave the healers to their work.” 

Dorcas took her time cleaning up the mess so that she didn’t have to see the faces of the men as they left. She didn’t trust herself to be professional at this particular moment. She only stood once the door was shut and she and Cal were alone with Hokey. 

Cal was still using spell after spell to revive Hokey. The house-elf didn’t respond to anything that he tried. 

After a moment or two, Hokey’s breathing became shallow and then stopped altogether. Placing the reassembled potion bottle on the tray, Dorcas bent over the elf once again. 

“Hokey?” Dorcas called the elf’s name. 

Hokey’s large round eyes were glassy and unfocused. Their cloudy blue irises stared at the ceiling. 

“She’s gone, Dorcas,” Cal said in a low voice to his wife. 

Dorcas reflexively plunged her hand into her pocket and grasped the phial with the memory she’d retrieved from the little house-elf. It was folly to try to extract it from her mind in the first place. Why had she consented to the first attempt, let alone the second one? 

Dorcas stepped away from Hokey’s bedside and stumbled over a chair behind her. She couldn’t think of the proper thing to do next. Cal probably needed her to do something. If he’d made a request of her, she didn’t hear it. Her vision became blurred and there was a loud humming in her ears. 

She could only settle on one action. Retreat. 

She crossed the room and flung the bedroom door open. Cal’s voice calling her back sounded as if it came from several rooms away. Dorcas had no voice to respond to him. 

On the landing, Dorcas came upon the trio of men that had vacated the room. 

Thaddeus rushed to her. “Is Hokey going to be okay?” he asked her anxiously, mistakenly believing she was there to deliver an update on the elf’s condition. 

She pushed past him without a word. 

Gideon caught her by the shoulder and spun her around. “What’s happened, Dorcas.?”

“Don’t touch me,” Dorcas returned, her voice flinty and cold. She shook off Gideon’s hand and flew down the final steps to the front door. 

Dumbledore didn’t speak at all, but watched all of this from a corner of the landing. 

Dorcas had to get out of that house. She couldn’t breath. The walls were closing in, the solicitous questions and hands of people pawing for her to do impossible things was too much. 

She Disapparated once her foot hit the front stoop. 

:::

10 July 1940 Number 19 Strattondale, Poplar, London

Dorcas learned only after the siren ceased its wailing that it was just a test of the Air Raid Precautions civilian defenses. She, along with Tom and her uncle, and countless other Poplar residents sat for an eternity in the Underground waiting for explosions and rubble to fall on their heads. 

She was relieved that her worst imaginings hadn’t come to pass, but also frustrated that this was what life would be for the foreseeable future. Her nerves felt raw. She couldn’t fathom the kind of disruption this had caused to her uncle’s fragile grasp on reality. 

When they emerged onto the street once more and saw that the city they had just fled from was unscathed, Dorcas breathed a heavy sigh and a prayer of thanksgiving. She pushed down the fear that the next time she had to flee at the siren’s call, this would not be the sight that greeted her. 

“Would you like me to walk with you?” Tom asked, perhaps interpreting her exhaled prayer as fear. 

“No,” Dorcas said, turning to him with a reassuring smile. “We’re only a block from home.”

Tom released her hand. He had been clinging to it since they fled the street twenty minutes earlier. Dorcas flexed her fingers. The sensation that his hand belonged there and now was missing held her attention curiously. Whatever disaster rained down on them, Dorcas felt she could face it better holding onto him than on her own. 

He was staring at her fingers as they clenched and flexed. Perhaps he had come to the same realization that she just had. His face was unreadable at that moment. 

Dorcas pulled her uncle to her side, as if his presence could make up for the sensation that she felt of being severed from one of her limbs. 

“Take care of yourself, Tom,” Dorcas said finally. It wasn’t what she wanted to say. But she felt that she did not possess enough words in her lexicon to tell him exactly what she did want to say. 

“You too,” Tom answered, turning and walking in the opposite direction down Galbraith Street. Before placing his hands casually in his pockets again, Dorcas could have sworn that she saw the fingers on his left hand tense and flex the same way hers had. 

Dorcas placed an arm around her uncle’s waist and steered him in the direction of home. 

Upon entering Number 19 Strattondale, Dorcas knew that things were different. 

Her piano was missing. 

Mary-Ellen sat at the kitchen table across from her older brother. 

Morty immediately released Dorcas and raced across the parlor to his room, gas mask still on his face. Dorcas knew that he would not emerge until her Uncle Lysander had gone. 

Dorcas closed the door to the flat and approached the pair, who looked as if they had been talking over a very serious issue. Dorcas thought about school. Had she gotten her marks on her exams back? Were they discussing taking her out of Hogwarts? Dorcas’s mind flitted from one possibility to the next. 

“Where’s my piano gone?” was all she could think to say in reply to the serious faces that looked back at her. 

“Dorcas,” her mother said. “Please sit down.” 

She did as her mother bid without argument. She looked between her mother, who seemed to want to tell her something, but couldn’t decide how to start, to her uncle, who looked at the table’s surface instead of at her. 

“What is it, mum?” Dorcas said, a sense of foreboding rising inside of her. 

“Dorcas, your piano has been packed up along with the rest of your things and Morty’s.” Her mother’s voice was shaking and a tear escaped the corner of her eye. 

“You and Morty are coming to live with me,” Uncle Lysander finished when Mary-Ellen seemed incapable of speaking further. 

Dorcas looked to her mother to confirm this absurd statement. Her look must have been accusatory, because her mother took her hand and began apologizing. 

“I’m sorry, my darling. It’s temporary. You’re not safe in London. Morty’s not safe. It’s only temporary.” Mary-Ellen squeezed Dorcas’s hand and wiped a tear from her cheek. 

“Where will you go?” Dorcas asked. If they had to leave London, surely they would leave together. Dorcas could never accept saving herself while leaving her mother behind. 

Mary-Ellen looked to Lysander and then back to Dorcas. “I have to stay, darling. I can’t abandon my post at the hospital. With the war, I’ll have more to do than ever.” 

Dorcas shook her head. “No,” she replied simply, pulling her hand from her mother’s grasp. 

“You do not get to make that choice, I’m afraid,” her uncle spoke to her with finality. She couldn’t remember many times that he’d ever spoken to her directly. He was practically a stranger. And she and Morty were to be packed off to live with him? She didn’t even know where his home was. 

Dorcas didn’t reply. She simply pushed her chair back from the kitchen table and fled to her room, just as Morty had done. Upon closing her bedroom door, she noticed that it had been completely stripped of any sign that it had once belonged to her.

:::

25 November 1957 The Leaky Cauldron, Charing Cross, London

Dorcas didn’t know why she’d Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. It was just the first thing that popped into her mind when she’d fled the Smith’s townhouse. She supposed she could have gone home. But part of her suspected that Gideon or Dumbledore might come there demanding the memory that was now in Dorcas’s pocket. 

She plunged her hand into the pocket and closed her fingers tightly around the little phial. She had no idea what the memory contained or who it implicated. She did not want to know. Part of her wanted to dash the little glass bottle onto the pavement and be done with the whole sordid business. But, she could not bring herself to destroy the last little bit of the house-elf that she’d worked to free and to keep alive. 

Guilt rose like bile in her throat as she thought about the large glassy eyes that stared unseeing at the ceiling. She couldn’t get Hokey’s voice out of her mind, calling for her mistress in warning of a killer that she couldn’t stop. But, Dorcas reasoned, if she didn’t deserve to be plagued by the memory of her patient’s final moments, who did? It had been her call to use the potion. Not once, but twice. No one else plunged that needle into Hokey’s vein. It was her decision and her action that killed the little creature. 

She was a killer. 

She said the words aloud to herself. Not for the first time. Probably not for the last, either. 

Pushing open the pub’s doors, she strode to the bar. Tom the barman was, as always, wiping grimy glasses behind the bar. 

He spotted her at the door, his eyes never leaving her. 

“Bourbon,” Dorcas said. 

Tom set a glass on the bar and turned to grab the bottle of dark liquor behind him. He poured, renewing his stare, but saying nothing. 

Dorcas threw some bills on the counter, thankful that she happened to have money in her pocket. The rest of her belongings were still in the Smith home, on the table beside Hokey’s dead body. It was Muggle money, but she knew it was all the same to the barman. 

“Leave the bottle,” Dorcas said, wondering if she sounded comical uttering these very unladylike words. 

Tom seemed to be the sort of man who’d heard it all and was surprised by very little. 

Dorcas took the glass and drained it. She grabbed the bottle with the other hand and retreated to an empty table in the corner. 

Pouring herself another, draining it, and repeating the actions, Dorcas began to make an assessment of her successes and failures on the road of good intentions she’d been walking. 

She’d gotten into healing, specifically work with Spell Damage and Compulsory Operational Curses, because of the treatment her Uncle Morty had received from misguided healers at Wingate Institution when he was a child. The damage that those spells wrought on his mind was devastating. She never got the opportunity to help him; to find out if it was even possible to help him. But she was asked to help Hokey and had ended up killing the tiny elf. So, in the end, was it better to be helped by her? Or to be left well enough alone? 

Pondering her own existential puzzle, she poured herself another drink. 

“What are we drinking to?” 

Dorcas stopped mid-pour and looked at the person who was intruding on her pity party for one. 

Tom Riddle stood close to her table, a half smile on his face, which quickly fell when Dorcas looked at him. 

She finished pouring and downed the ounce of brown liquid, kicking a chair out toward him with her foot. 

“To losing a patient,” Dorcas said darkly. 

Tom gestured to the barman, who brought another glass. Tom placed his hat on the table in front of him and sat. 

“Well, damn,” Tom said, pouring Dorcas another and then one for himself. 

He drank and studied her. She looked anywhere but at him. 

“I’m sure it happens every once in a while,” Tom reasoned. 

“Not in my particular field,” Dorcas argued. She poured and they drank. 

“I don’t know much about your work,” Tom said, tracing a finger along the lip of his glass. “But I do know you.” 

He looked directly at Dorcas and she stared back. 

His hand moved from his glass to take hers as it rested on the table. With his other hand, he moved the bottle out of her reach. 

“What do you know about me, Tom?” Dorcas challenged. 

Twelve years was a long time. Neither of them were the same person they had been at Hogwarts. Maybe once, he had been the person she’d known the best. Maybe once they had loved each other. But twelve years was a long time. 

“You’re not a quitter. If someone needs your help, you’ll give it.” He said this in such a matter of fact tone, it left no room for argument. 

“You’re a fighter. You don’t think you’re brave enough. But you’ll risk your own neck to save someone else. You risked your neck for me.” 

Dorcas recalled the time that Tom was referencing. Even now, thinking about how he had almost died, sent a chill down her spine. 

“And you love more fiercely than anyone else I have known,” Tom said, squeezing her fingers gently to emphasize his point. 

“So you lost a patient today.” He shrugged. “How many more have you saved? If my life were in the balance, and it has been, I would bet it all on you, Birdie.” 

He placed his hat back on his head as if to punctuate his statement, picked up the bottle of bourbon and returned it to the bar. Dorcas watched his movements dully, numbed by alcohol.

Tom removed his coat and placed it around Dorcas’s shoulders. 

“Now come on, Birdie. I’ve got to get you home. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do,” he added, pulling her to her feet and supporting her slightly as she swayed. They left the Leaky Cauldron for the bitter wind on Charing Cross. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

25 November 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas entered her home and quickly closed the door behind her. Her mind was clouded by drink and in complete disarray. She took a moment to lean against the door to steady herself. 

“Dorcas! You’re back,” Theresa said, a note of relief in her voice. 

“Yes,” Dorcas answered. Without saying more, she crossed to her office and closed the door behind her. She needed to be alone. 

Sinking to her patient couch, she placed her head in her hands and tried to process the events of the last few minutes. 

She remembered leaving the grimy little pub with Tom after having...she couldn’t remember how many drinks. He was taking her home. But they made it only as far as a nearby alley before his manner changed. 

When they had been sharing a few drinks, Tom had been an understanding and encouraging friend once more. He was his old self. The boy that Dorcas had fallen in love with all of those years ago. 

But then, something changed when they’d stepped only a few paces into Muggle London. She remembered Tom taking her by the hand and leading her to a small side street containing some rubbish bins and stacks of crates. He became a different person in an instant, more forceful and insistent. His hands had grabbed her waist and held her against a brick wall. He pressed against her, pinning her there. One hand traced the curve of her hip, as he bent close to her and brushed his lips against hers. 

Dorcas turned her head to the side, denying him the opportunity to complete the kiss. She reached out and stopped the progression of his wandering hand. Shoving outward with all of the frustration she felt, she threw him off. 

“Tom, no,” she gasped. 

“Birdie,” Tom said, his voice low and enticing. He stepped toward her again. 

Dorcas didn’t give him a chance to explain, if explain was what he intended to do. She wouldn’t stick around to find out. He may not wish to explain at all. She wouldn’t be sticking around for that either. 

She Apparated home without another word. Going home is what she should have done in the first place. 

Dorcas retraced the conversation they’d had in the Leaky Cauldron in her mind. Had she given him the impression that she was looking to rekindle their schoolhood romance? She couldn’t remember the exact words they’d exchanged, but she was pretty sure they were not reminiscing about the more amorous nighttime outings they’d had together. She certainly hadn’t given him the impression that she was looking to continue that amour. She was fairly certain. 

Why had she tried to drink an entire bottle of bourbon? 

Hokey came back to her mind in answer. She stuck her hand under the overcoat that was still flung over her shoulders. Reaching into the pocket of her trousers, she pulled out the small phial with the swirling silver memory inside. She clutched the bottle to her chest like a precious relic and tipped sideways onto a cushion. 

She pulled Tom’s coat around her and sank into oblivion, hoping not to remember any part of this day when she awoke. 

:::

A persistent pounding in Dorcas’s head brought her back to the land of the living. When she opened her eyes, she noticed light streaming through the windows. 

Once she’d had a moment to focus, she noticed Cal sitting across from her, in her chair. Is that how she stared at her patients when she analyzed them? She was distinctly uncomfortable. 

“You know the cure for a hangover?” he asked. 

“Death?” Dorcas asked. Her tongue was like cotton in her mouth. 

She sat up and Cal poured her some coffee. 

“Whose coat is that?” he asked, handing her a steaming cup. 

Reaching for the coffee, she noticed for the first time since nodding off that she was still clutching the memory. She set it reverently on the table in front of her. 

Sipping the warm beverage gratefully, she answered, “Tom’s.” 

Cal’s eyebrows raised. “You saw Tom?” 

Dorcas swallowed. It was understandable, the way Cal reacted to the name. 

“Not on purpose,” Dorcas explained. “I was perfectly fine drinking on my own.”

Cal sat up, more alert to her explanation than she thought he would be. 

“Did he seek you out? Did it seem like he was looking for you?” 

“What?” Dorcas felt her head pounding. She couldn’t take an interrogation on a hangover. “I was at the Leaky Cauldron. He works down the street. I don’t think he ran into me on purpose.” 

“What are you going to do with that?” Cal asked, introducing a new line of questioning. 

Dorcas took another fortifying sip of coffee, grateful for the change of subject. She had the distinct impression that the previous topic was not finished, but that Cal was letting it rest for the moment. 

“I don’t know,” Dorcas said, eyeing the glass bottle filled with the last of Hokey’s consciousness. A wave of sadness came over her and her eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t know if I can look at it. And yet, what reason did we have for making that poor house-elf suffer if I don’t look at it?” 

“Dumbledore asked--” Cal stopped mid sentence and seemed to think about what he was about to say. “Dumbledore insisted that I find you last night and get that memory from you.” 

Dumbledore. The name made Dorcas’s blood boil. If he hadn’t demanded she recover both memories--

Dorcas shook her head. As much as she wanted to make Dumbledore the object of her anger, she knew the decision ultimately rested with her. She could have defied her old teacher and refused to retrieve the second memory until she had been sure that Hokey could tolerate the elixir. 

“He’s not getting the memory,” Dorcas said flatly. 

“I told him you’d say that,” Cal said on a sigh, leaning back in the chair. 

:::

10 July 1940 Blackpool Abbey, Upper Flagley, Yorkshire

Dorcas felt completely abandoned as she stepped through the imposing doors of her uncle’s estate in Yorkshire. Save for Bing, buttoned up protectively inside of her cardigan, Dorcas was the only member of Number 19 Strattondale that was packed up and shipped off. Morty flat refused to go, his tantrum turning into an outright fit of seizures only moments before their departure. 

Dorcas believed it may have been the first time that her Uncle Lysander had witnessed the traumatic effects that a year at Wingate had wrought on his youngest sibling. Even now, he still seemed shaken by what he’d just seen. His capitulation was only extended to Morty. 

“Give him a week to get used to the idea and then I’ll come and retrieve him, or you can bring him here if you think it best,” Lysander had said to Mary-Ellen, his usually stern and commanding voice held a wavering quality that Dorcas found irreconcilable with her notion of him.

And so, she was the lone refugee stepping through the doors now into an alien world of manor houses, servants, dressing gongs, and a million rituals that made an idle life appear meaningful. Dorcas tried to swallow past the knot she felt in her throat and reminded herself that she need only to bide her time for two months and then she would be back at Hogwarts. 

A small creature was standing in the lofty entryway, ready to take Lysander’s hat and coat. The creature had large round ears, protruding amber eyes, and a wrinkled forehead. It wore a crisp white tea towel tied over one shoulder. Dorcas had read about creatures like the one standing before her. It was a house-elf. 

“Thank you, Gimlet,” Lysander said to the creature, who bowed low and sent the coat and hat flying lightly onto a waiting coat rack.

The house-elf looked expectantly at Dorcas. She didn’t have anything that needed removing and so stared at the elf, unsure of what to do. Bing poked his head out from the neck of Dorcas’s cardigan and hissed, causing the elf to stumble backwards. 

“Where is Mrs. Rackharrow?” Lysander asked the elf, rendering a response from Dorcas unnecessary. 

“In the east drawing room, sir,” Gimlet said in a direct and confident, albeit squeaky voice. 

“Tell my children I would like to speak with them there, please.” 

The elf bowed low and disappeared with a small pop. 

Lysander turned to walk away in what Dorcas assumed was the direction of the east drawing room. She watched his retreating back, wondering what she should do.

“Dorcas, come,” Lysander called over his shoulder. 

Feeling for all the world like a stray dog that was in need of training, Dorcas followed Lysander out of the entrance hall. 

The east drawing room was twice as large as the entire London flat that Dorcas had grown up in. Though she hadn’t been mistaken when she heard Gimlet refer to this space as a drawing room, it had none of the cozy features that Dorcas would have associated with a space with that designation. It had couches and chairs and tables, but that is where the term sitting room diverged from Dorcas’s understanding. 

It was a formal room with dark paneling along the bottom one-third of the wall. Above the chair rail was a navy blue damask wall papering that was covered at regular intervals with massive oil paintings of dour-looking witches and wizards. All of these, Dorcas assumed, were relations of hers. She thought she could make out two or three paintings that were reminiscent of Reynolds or Gainsborough. 

Seated demurely in front of a tea service was a blond woman, dressed in a fine silk tea dress of lilac. The woman openly appraised Dorcas as she entered the room behind her uncle. Dorcas resisted the urge to fidget nervously under the hawkish gaze. She wanted to smooth her plaited hair, or straighten her simple cotton dress. Instead, she kept her hands over the squirming lump under her cardigan and looked at her shoes. 

“Dorcas,” Lysander said, turning to her. “This is my wife, your aunt, Eden.” 

Dorcas looked up and met the cool gaze of her aunt. “Hello,” she managed to say without tremor. 

“Hello, Dorcas,” Eden returned. “Your things have been arranged in the blue room on the second landing. I have had Tooey lay out something appropriate for you to change into. Then you can join me here for tea.”

Dorcas didn’t say anything to these instructions. She was not at all confident that she would be able to find a blue room or a second landing. She was absolutely sure she didn’t know what a Tooey was. It was as if she had landed on another planet where the language and customs were strange to her. It was not unlike the sensation she’d had when first arriving at Hogwarts. The comparison heartened her slightly. Hadn’t Hogwarts become a place that she felt at home and completely herself? Why shouldn’t this country estate turn out to be the same? 

Her mental pep talk was interrupted when the door opened behind Dorcas and a tall girl with carefully arranged dark hair wearing a light blue organza dress entered. Dorcas had seen her at school. This was Gemma. On her heels came her younger brother, Jonas. Dorcas had spoken to him occasionally in the classes that they shared. 

Though they looked very similar, dark hair and green eyes, Jonas seemed the opposite of his sister in temperament. She walked across the room with a haughty and self-possessed air, not looking at Dorcas once. When Jonas saw her, he immediately smiled at her in recognition before standing next to his sister’s chair. 

“Gemma, Jonas,” Lysander addressed his children. “This is Dorcas, your cousin. She is staying with us for the summer.”

“Hello, Cousin Dorcas,” Gemma said with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “You are most welcome.” She lifted her teacup to her lips with a stare that communicated the opposite to Dorcas. 

Dorcas shifted from one foot to the other. Bing wriggled under her cardigan and poked his head out of the collar. 

“I’ve seen him at school,” Jonas said, crossing the room and standing inches from Dorcas to scratch Bing behind the ear. “I didn’t know he was yours.” 

Dorcas held Bing with one hand and clumsily undid the buttons of her cardigan with the other, releasing him. She handed him to Jonas, whom Bing appeared to recognize as a friend. 

“This is Bing,” Dorcas introduced the two. 

“I call him Ratter,” Jonas said, taking Bing and stroking the cat under the chin affectionately. “He’s always in the dungeons hunting.”

“It’s lovely to see that you two are already acquainted,” Eden said, sipping her tea with the same communicative stare as her daughter’s. 

Lysander turned to Jonas and Dorcas, “Son, show Dorcas where her room is, please.” 

“Sure,” Jonas replied, turning to leave the sitting room with Bing. Dorcas followed, relieved for the opportunity to retreat from her aunt and Gemma, who continued to stare. 

“Give the cat to Tooey so that it can be bathed,” Eden called as they left the room. “I abhor fleas.” 

:::

30 November 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas was never without that little bottle of Hokey’s swirling silver memory. She carried it with her everywhere she went. But she couldn’t bring herself to do something with it. She couldn’t look at it, she couldn’t give it away, and she couldn’t destroy it. 

Like the memory, she carried the guilt of her decision to use the untested solution on the house-elf. She took it with her everywhere. 

Dorcas hadn’t slept in four days. The bourbon had helped her forget for a moment, but that had invited a different sort of trouble into Dorcas’s life. She would not turn to alcohol again in order to reach a peaceful oblivion. 

Surprisingly, Cal had not returned to the conversation about Tom. Dorcas was not going to remind him of it. It was better to forget things that might have happened. It wouldn’t do to dwell.

Dorcas was still seeing patients at home and alternately at the hospital. It helped to keep her from sinking too much into self doubt. 

“Come to the park with us?” Theresa asked, after showing Dorcas’s last patient to the door. 

Dorcas stood in the doorway of her office. Reflexively, she was about to answer no. But the bracing fall air would be a nice change of atmosphere. She helped Wren into a coat and threw her own over her shoulder. The park was a block away. They probably wouldn’t be gone too long. 

Theresa was fastening the buttons on Billy’s coat as Dorcas pinned her hat to her hair. 

They settled on a bench near the sandbox. This was a favorite spot for Theresa and the children. She had a clear view of the pair when they built castles and creatures in the sand. There were few people about this afternoon, as it was getting colder with the setting sun. 

Dorcas breathed deeply, stinging her lungs, and closed her eyes. Instinctively, her hand rested on the little bottle in the pocket of her trousers. 

“You’re going to feel better soon,” Theresa said. 

Dorcas opened her eyes, but didn’t look at the woman on her left. Her only reply was a great sigh. She knew Theresa was right. 

“You helped me to find answers and get closure,” Theresa said. “I know you were trying to do the same thing for the patient you lost.” 

Dorcas blinked. She wanted to point out to Theresa that the two cases were very different. But the more she thought about it, the more similar Hokey’s situation seemed to Theresa’s. 

“You’re going to help Gideon stop another killer. Like you helped him to stop Steven,” Theresa continued. 

“He’s still out there,” Dorcas pointed out. Immediately she regretted her callousness. Theresa felt the threat of his evasion of the authorities every day without Dorcas’s help. 

“Yes,” Theresa countered. “But the authorities are looking for him. He can’t hide forever. And once you look at that memory, another killer will be exposed.” 

Dorcas reached into her pocket and pulled the memory out. She and Theresa sat in silence and looked at it for a moment or two. 

“You know what to do, Dorcas,” Theresa encouraged. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Dorcas agreed, returning the bottle to the safety of her pocket. 

They watched in silence a little longer while Billy and Wren built a castle and then rampaged over it, smashing it into dust once more. 

With twilight coming on, Dorcas supposed it was time to walk back to the house. She was just about to voice this when she saw a man approaching them. As he neared, she could make out the familiar figure of Gideon Prewett. 

Dorcas narrowed her eyes. She was surprised it had taken him four days to reach out to her. She steeled herself for another argument about the memory. Theresa had just convinced her of the rightness of looking at the contents of the little phial in her pocket. She was not going to release it to Gideon or to Dumbledore until she had done just that. 

“Hello, Gideon,” Theresa called as he neared. 

“I’m glad I found you,” Gideon said in a rush. He was breathing heavily, the look on his face suggested he had been worried about something. Dorcas couldn’t think what could have him so bothered. 

“Counselor,” Dorcas said, standing and looking at him with a cautious expression. “Has something happened?”

“Fabian was tipped off to a breaking and entering case that was just phoned in to the Muggle Police,” Gideon explained as Theresa pulled the children from the sandbox, dusting off their hands and knees. 

“A break in?” Dorcas asked. She was confused. Perhaps it had to do with Steven Muybridge. 

“Yes, Dorcas,” Gideon replied. “At your house.” 

:::

16 August 1940 Blackpool Abbey, Upper Flagley, Yorkshire

Dorcas had been at Blackpool Abbey for over a month and found, much to her disappointment, the adjustment had been nothing like when she came to Hogwarts. 

She’d acclimated herself to her new environment the only way she knew how, to research everything that she didn’t know. To that end, she sought out the home’s library on her second day there. This library, like Hogwarts, had all sorts of books on an array of topics. Unlike Hogwarts, there was no Restricted Section and even the most disturbing information was at Dorcas’s fingertips. She was not picky about the books that filled her days, she learned about Divination, Arithmancy, and even a fair amount about the Dark Arts. 

The library at Blackpool provided a sufficient source for distraction and Dorcas came here most days. The only drawback to seeking refuge in the library was that her uncle was often here as well. Dorcas’s scheme to keep out of sight was to get to the library immediately after breakfast and hurriedly climb the wrought iron spiral stairs to the second floor of bookshelves. She could hurriedly select a book and retreat to a corner before her uncle ever entered the space. 

Dorcas’s days were spent mostly in this solitary manner in the library or out upon the grounds of the estate. Apart from Jonas, none of her other family members attempted to seek her out or to talk to her. 

Shortly after finding the library, Dorcas had discovered where her piano was being kept. There was a room adjacent to the library that Tooey the house-elf referred to as the music room. Although, if the piano hadn’t been installed here, Dorcas would have very much doubted that designation as there was not another instrument to be found there. 

Dorcas had been pleased to find out that Tooey knew how to play the piano as well. When she’d taken Dorcas to the music room to be reunited with her instrument, Tooey lovingly patted the glossy black wood of one of the legs and talked to the piano about how much she missed him. Dorcas felt a kinship to Tooey, thinking about the piano as a friend as well. 

When Tooey had assured Dorcas that all other members of the house were out of hearing, Dorcas sat down and played her grandmother’s favorite tune,  _ Fantasia in C Minor _ . Tooey climbed up onto the bench with her and accompanied her. 

Tooey explained that she had been taught by the master’s mother how to play. But she squeaked regretfully that her fingers did not reach many keys at once and her arms were short. 

Not wanting to invite the ire of her aunt, Dorcas played only seldomly when she could be assured by Tooey that no one was occupying the rooms closest to her. 

Dorcas wanted to play the instrument now. But she was ensconced on the second floor shelves of the library with a grim book spread in her lap. It was a leatherbound volume called  _ Crux Anima Bodhi _ . It felt and smelled centuries old and contained some of the most sinister magic that Dorcas had ever encountered. She’d picked it up because the author’s name on the spine caught her attention: Urquhart Rackharrow. He must have been an ancestor to Dorcas. 

She was disturbed and fascinated at the same time about the Dark Magic that the book described. Rackharrow, it seems, was the very worst sort of person. His life’s work seemed to have centered around spells and curses that inflicted ghastly damage upon his victims. Dorcas was reading at this very moment, Rackharrow’s own account of developing an Entrail-Expelling Curse. Dorcas naively wondered why one would want to expel one’s own entrails, until she realized that Rackharrow had meant to use it on others. And use it, he did. He detailed his own exploits with the curse. He became famous on the battlefields of Europe for gutting his enemies.

There were illustrations. 

Dorcas flipped past these quickly. Another trio of curses caught Dorcas’s attention. They were known collectively as Fabrilia Caligo, the Dark Tools. Rackharrow lived in a very uncertain time for wizards and witches in Europe. It wasn’t uncommon for the magical folk of the seventeenth century to develop spells and curses in order to protect themselves and their communities from Muggles who sought to eradicate them. However, Dorcas could not account for the malice of the spells that this Rackharrow ancestor created. They were far more than defensive, they were pernicious in the extreme. 

One spell controlled the mind, one spell tricked the mind into self-torment, and one spell shut the mind off completely as if snuffing out a candle. Dorcas was familiar with these spells from her Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. Although Professor Merrythought had not covered them in class, Dorcas had read about them. They were known collectively in the twentieth century as the Unforgivable Curses. They were named so because to use them meant to eschew any legal defense and immediate imprisonment. 

She sat for a moment with the information that her ancestor had created such injurious incantations. She had, of course, read about other dark wizards, but never dreamed that she was descended from one of the darkest by his own account. 

Flipping the pages brought more and more disturbing discoveries. A spell that instantly flays one’s victim, a curse that makes one’s blood boil--literally, a combination spell-and-potion that requires the taking of another’s life in order to guarantee that your own is never forfeit. She closed the book wishing that she’d never taken it from the shelf. 

:::

Dinner in the Rackharrow household was always a formal affair. This was the sort of place where people “dressed for dinner”. Which meant that every evening, Dorcas was forced to don some awful evening gown that had once belonged to her cousin Gemma. They were always much longer and more snug across the bust than Dorcas would have preferred. Tooey was a very capable seamstress and always made the garments seem tailor made for Dorcas in the end. She was also forced to forego her customary plaits for a more refined coiffure similar to her Aunt Eden’s and Cousin Gemma’s hair. In other words, Dorcas had to transform into a completely different person altogether in order to dine among her Yorkshire relations. 

At the dinner table Dorcas tried mightily to tune out what her aunt and Gemma were thinking. The first night’s dinner was filled with unspoken ridicule. Dorcas nearly forgot how to use utensils, so disconcerting were the remarks she’d heard in her aunt’s mind. No doubt, her clumsy fumbling with knife and fork only added fuel to the fire. Never in her years growing up on London’s East End had she ever felt as inferior to others as she had at this table. 

Now she could look the part and act the part of high society, but inside she felt like a fraud. She didn’t recognize the person she saw in the mirror when she surveyed her evening appearance before going downstairs. But that was the price of acceptance. And Dorcas wanted to belong somewhere. 

If only Morty had decided to come with her. But that was a selfish thought. When she reflected on what a torment it was for her living here, she knew full well that her beloved friend and uncle would not have thrived here. She was fearful every day for her mother and Morty, wondering if bombings had made life in London precarious. And at the same time, she desperately wished she were in her own Poplar flat with them, even if it meant air raid sirens and bombings. 

She had her cat, her cousin Jonas had been friendly to her, and her friends wrote to her now and again. Cherry gave her three pages full of details about her shopping trip to Muggle department stores in London for her birthday last month. Anneliese had corresponded about assigned work for the summer and about Hollywood gossip. Even Cal had written to Dorcas. The news he’d shared in his letter came as a relief to Dorcas, for his brother, who had been missing in action since the evacuations at Dunkirk, had been found in a field hospital not far from the Dover base where he’d trained. Tom had even written to her of a Muggle circus he’d visited in Notting Hill where he’d asked around with the name Marvolo. He hadn’t gotten anywhere, but was hopeful as this confirmed for him that his parents (at least one of them) were magical. 

Dinner conversation was muted and polite. This often allowed Dorcas’s mind to wander without much impediment. But, she was sometimes caught out when she came back to reality and saw four pairs of eyes looking expectantly to her for an answer, as they were doing now. 

“Dorcas?” Her uncle held his wine glass halfway to his lips, staring at her. 

She snapped back to the present, wishing she’d heard the question that was voiced moments ago. “Yes?” 

She reddened as Gemma’s tinkling laugh of amusement confirmed that she’d missed something. 

“I asked if you have finished the assignments that you were set for the summer by your teachers,” her uncle asked her patiently. His eyes flicked to his daughter who sat across from Dorcas and gave her a reproachful look. 

“Sorry,” Dorcas answered. “Yes, sir. I have.” 

“Jonas,” his father’s eyes moved to his son, seated on his left next to Dorcas. “You would do well to follow Dorcas’s example. I was not pleased in general with your marks this year.” 

“Yes, sir,” Jonas said, his eyes on his plate where he made a study of cutting up his food into tiny pieces. 

Dorcas wanted to come to the defense of her only ally at the table and was prompted to speak up, something she had avoided doing in the presence of her family until now. 

“I can help you, Jonas. It’s really simple once you get started.”

Her uncle smiled, which in turn made her aunt narrow her eyes. 

“A kind offer,” Lysander said, sipping his wine again. “What do you say, son?”

“Thank you,” Jonas said, not taking his eyes off of his plate. 

“Did you receive a letter from Evlyn today?” Aunt Eden redirected the conversation to Gemma and her steady boyfriend and Seeker on the Slytherin Quidditch team, Evlyn Rosier. Her aunt’s tone made it plain that she thought highly of Gemma’s beau. 

Dorcas knew very little of the Slytherin, except for what she saw on the Quidditch pitch. He was an underhanded player. When he was not busy looking for the snitch, he amused himself by earning penalties for injuring his opponents. 

Gemma brightened at the mention of Evlyn and started to answer her mother animatedly but was cut off by her father. 

“You should worry less about which boys write to you and more about your studies, Gemma,” Lysander said, setting down his fork and knife and directing his stare in her direction. 

Gemma rolled her eyes. Dorcas got the impression that this was a common refrain from her uncle when boys were mentioned. 

She paid no mind to her father and answered her mother. “He’s invited a group of pals to his place in Brighton. It will be the event of the summer, mama. I will be expected to go, of course.” 

“Of course,” Eden agreed, looking very excited on behalf of her daughter. 

Jonas made a noise under his breath that he quickly covered with his napkin. Sitting next to him, Dorcas could make out “moron” quite clearly. She laughed a little and covered it with a cough. 

:::

30 November 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas surveyed the smashed cabinet and the shattered phials containing dozens of memories from as many patients. Files and notes were scattered on the floor. 

Gideon and Theresa were in the sitting room with the children. 

Thankfully, the rest of the house seemed untouched by the intruder. The basement was protected with multiple enchantments. It was likely that whomever had broken in was unaware of the lab’s existence. Dorcas was grateful for that. The loss of the collected life’s works of Dorcas and Cal, the potions they’d invented, the recipes that they’d painstakingly perfected. That would be catastrophic. 

The loss of the memories, soaking into the rug at her feet were devastating. But they could be replaced if it became necessary to her work. Most of the glass phials were from previous patients. Ones that Dorcas had helped through their trauma, completed their recovery. 

“Are you sure it was Muybridge?” Dorcas aked. 

Auror Prewett answered from somewhere behind her. “No, I’m not.” 

“How did you know it had happened?” 

“I’ve got the local police department’s phones charmed. I’ve been scanning calls for weeks now. Of course, if Muybridge had tried to break in while Theresa or her son were here, we’d have caught him. He can’t come near them without the DMLE being on him immediately.” 

Fabian said this last with regret. Dorcas was thankful that none of them were home when Muybridge...or whomever, had busted through the front door. 

“Your neighbor, Mrs. Peake, phoned it into the station.” He continued his careful circuit of the office. “Anything missing so far as you can tell?” 

“I don’t know if taking was the object of the intrusion,” Dorcas said, bending to pick through the shards of glass and the silvery pool on the rug. 

“Muybridge has to know that copies of Theresa’s memories exist,” Fabian said, thinking out loud. “Why take such a risk? He must know your house is being monitored.” 

Dorcas waved her wand and the broken phials knitted themselves back together, although the memories they once contained were a lost cause. 

“Scourgify,” Dorcas thought and pointed at the mess on the rug, which vanished. She placed all of the mended bottles into wooden stands and placed them on her desk for cataloguing. She began arranging the scattered papers and files on her desk. 

:::

1 December 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Dorcas lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The sound of Cal’s steady breathing next to her usually did the trick, but tonight was yet another night that she couldn’t get to sleep. She tried to tell herself that she was just jumpy from the break in earlier. But, Dorcas’s mind kept returning to the little phial of silver, misty liquid on the nightstand next to her. She turned her head and watched its faint glow. 

What if she’d left that memory with the others instead of obsessively carrying it with her? What if the last ounce of Hokey’s consciousness were mingled with the others in that pool of spent memory? She would never be able to recover another. She felt a sense of urgency about what was in that phial. 

Throwing back the covers and finding her bathrobe, Dorcas padded quietly from the bedroom and to her office with the memory clutched tightly in her palm. Everything had been returned to normal. The only evidence as to the home invasion that had taken place were the empty phials standing in wooden racks on her desk. 

Dorcas pulled the Pensieve and the jar of grayish white smoking liquid from the cabinet. Both of these items were mercifully spared destruction. She placed these items carefully on the coffee table beside the patient’s couch. She poured the gray mist into the Pensieve and uncorked Hokey’s memory. Bracing herself, Dorcas touched her face to the swirling liquid and felt the familiar falling sensation. 

She fell gently into the sitting room of Hepzibah Smith. 

:::

Dorcas shuddered. The last time she’d been in this home, the house-elf she’d sworn to help had died under her care. 

She followed the small creature into the entryway of the Chiswick townhouse.

Shoving aside the image of Hokey lying motionless on the crisp white sheets of the enormous four poster bed upstairs, Dorcas focused on the still living elf of memory. 

Hokey reached for the doorknob and Dorcas’s heart was in her throat. On the other side of the door was Hepzibah Smith’s killer. She was braced with the certainty that whomever had committed the murder and framed Hokey was about to be unmasked to face justice. 

She was not prepared to see the face of her childhood love, the man she’d just fled the advances of only the night before. Tom Riddle stood on the stoop. His charming smile still made her knees weak. His face seemed a little more hollow around the cheeks, which only served to make him more handsome. He could be a Hollywood leading man with the natural good looks he’d been given. 

Dorcas pulled herself out of the memory and sat back on the couch. She wrapped her bathrobe around her and shivered. 

She reflexively started to concoct a defense for Tom. She’d spent six years at Hogwarts backing him, supporting him, defending him. She slipped naturally into the old habit. He was at Ms. Smith’s house two days before her death. That didn’t prove anything. Another person could have come in after Tom and killed her. Two days. Anything could have happened in those two days. 

But logic said this was the person that Gideon and Dumbledore sought. Dumbledore had been suspicious of Dorcas. He’d wanted the use of her potion, but not her consultation. 

Dorcas’s blood went cold when she’d lined up the next coincidence. After Hokey’s death, Tom had been the one to sit and drink with her. And afterward-- she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge what had happened in the alleyway steps from the Leaky Cauldron. Did he know she’d just left Hokey? Did he know she’d had the memory on her? 

She recalled the way he’d pressed up against her, his hands wandering. 

She didn’t want to see the full memory. She didn’t want to witness more confirmation that Tom was not the person she’d thought he was. But she steeled herself and plunged into the memory once more. 

Gasping as she came out of the Pensieve once again, Dorcas dropped her forehead into her hands. She felt no loyalty to Tom now. Not after the way they’d parted at the end of her sixth year at school. There was no expectation of protection of, or collusion in his plans. What were his plans? She thought about the objects that his possessive eyes had claimed, even as they were packed up and carted away from him. 

Once, she would have done anything for Tom. She had crossed many lines in the name of dedication to him. His aims, his goals, his dreams were once hers. She banged the palm of her hand repeatedly against her forehead. 

If she had a Time Turner…

But, of course, she did not have a Time Turner. But she had a memory that implicated him in...something...murder at the least, she reasoned. 

Then Dorcas became terrified. What if the intruder from this afternoon was not Steven Muybridge looking to destroy incriminating evidence against him? What if it was Tom, looking for the memory she’d extracted from Hokey?

The room’s temperature seemed to plummet. Dorcas felt completely unsafe in her home for the first time since she had moved her family into it this past summer. She felt invisible eyes on her everywhere. 

A knock on the office door made her jump. She cursed and her heart leapt into her chest. 

“Cal,” she exhaled as her head shot up out of her hands. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked her sympathetically. His hair was adorably tousled and his pajama shirt was misbuttoned. If Dorcas had been in a different frame of mind, the sight of him would have stirred something in her. 

But the only sensation she registered in that moment was a realization that Tom was the killer that Dumbledore was seeking, and that Tom knew she had the evidence Dumbledore needed to put him in Azkaban. 

“Cal,” she said, her voice quivering. “I need to talk to you.” 


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

1 December 1957 Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Standing in the massive stone entrance hall of Hogwarts, Dorcas argued with herself once more. She could destroy the memory, claim that it had been lost with the others when her office had been ransacked. Then again, Dorcas knew what the right thing to do was. She thought of her mother and pictured disappointment on her face at hearing Dorcas’s justifications in her mind for not turning the memory over. 

A woman with auburn hair who looked to be in her thirties or early forties came from the entrance of the Great Hall and turned to Dorcas. She supposed some teachers were new since she’d been a student here. 

Merrythought had retired at the end of her sixth year from the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. And, Dorcas surmised, someone would have had to replace Dumbledore in the classroom as well since his promotion to Headmaster. 

“May I help you?” the woman asked, looking over the rim of her glasses with a rather severe stare. Dorcas could not help but marvel at the intimidating effect the directness of her gaze had. She must be a rather formidable teacher.

Dorcas reminded herself to ask Ryann about this teacher when she returned home in a few weeks’ time for Christmas holiday. Dorcas rather thought she would have liked this teacher a lot if she’d had her at school. 

“Hello,” Dorcas returned. “I have an appointment with the headmaster.” 

“Dr. Meadowes?” the woman inquired. 

Dorcas nodded. 

“I was told you’d be expected. But I thought you’d be a man.” She gave Dorcas an appraising look. “How refreshing,” the woman said appreciatively. 

Dorcas laughed a little to herself. The expectation that Dr. Meadowes would be a man often preceded her when she came into a courtroom, or penned an essay for a professional journal. She was in a field dominated by men and therefore, was used to the assumption. 

“Minerva McGonagall,” the woman said by way of introduction, gesturing to the marble staircase to her left. 

“Lovely to meet you, Professor,” Dorcas replied. Now that she’d heard the name, she was sure Ryann had mentioned her in the letters she wrote. This was Dumbledore’s replacement in the classroom. A rather impressive witch, by Ryann’s account. 

:::

Dorcas turned down Cal’s offer to accompany her to Hogwarts. In a feint of heroism, Dorcas had said no, she needed to do this on her own. She was cursing her mock bravery now. 

Cal would have been sure to ease the tensions between Dorcas and Dumbledore. 

Now that Dorcas had seen just what Dumbledore had suspected to have taken place in the Smith townhouse, she was bracing herself for an inquisition about her relationship with Tom Riddle. 

Of course, there was no relationship to speak of now. But what if Dumbledore wanted to dredge up the past? Dorcas wondered how much she truly knew about the man who used to be as close as a soulmate to her? How much inquiry could she tolerate from Dumbledore? 

Professor McGonagall showed Dorcas through the spiral-staired passage guarded by a gargoyle and into the headmaster’s office. 

It looked quite different than the last time she’d been in it. But then, she supposed, every new headmaster made the office over to suit their tastes. Where Professor Dippet had once kept books and files and ledgers, Professor Dumbledore kept an assortment of curious magical machines. Shiny brass and glittering crystal gave the office a more whimsical atmosphere. 

The customary portraits of deceased headmasters adorned the walls in their usual places behind the massive mahogany desk. 

Professor Black was pretending to be asleep. Professor Dippet sat reading in a stiff wingback chair. 

Below the portraits sat the current headmaster. He had a manner about him which always gave Dorcas the impression that his aged appearance was just a cover for a very energetic and youthful soul. 

“Dr. Meadowes,” Dumbledore said, rising from his chair and moving around his desk to greet her. 

“Professor,” Dorcas replied, taking the hand he offered apprehensively. She disliked feeling so wrong footed in her former teacher’s presence. But she couldn’t banish their last meeting from her mind. Dumbledore insisted she retrieve the second memory. Dorcas had capitulated. And Hokey had died. 

Professor Dumbledore nodded in thanks to Professor McGonagall who left the two to their business. 

Returning to his desk, Dumbledore waved a hand at a chair opposite him. “Please sit.” 

As she sat, Dorcas reached into her pocket and pulled out the memory that she’d been studying that morning. After her initial shock at seeing Tom seated among Ms. Smith’s rare and priceless collection of artifacts, she’d watched the scene play out four more times. Each time she willed the memory to reveal a different face. Everytime it didn’t, she’d had to convince herself to accept what she knew to be true: Tom Riddle murdered Hepzibah Smith. 

Parting with it now, after days of carrying it around with her, was an odd sensation. It was like the final, tentative thread of Hokey’s life was now severed completely. 

She placed it on the desk before Dumbledore. 

Her old teacher did not attempt to mask the surprise on his features. His eyebrows raised and he looked from the tiny phial and then to her. 

“Thank you, Dorcas.” He sounded appreciative, even grateful to her for the memory. “Have you looked at it?”

“I have,” Dorcas replied evenly. It took a great deal of courage to admit this to Dumbledore. It felt like an awful betrayal of her friendship to Tom. But, Dorcas reminded herself, the friendship had been obliterated long before she’d decided to hand this memory over to the headmaster. 

“Do  _ you  _ know what it contains, Professor?” Dorcas couldn’t help but ask. Dumbledore was an insightful and brilliant wizard. Her guess was that he’d known what the memory contained long before he’d pursued Gideon’s help, or Gideon hers. 

“I believe I do,” Dumbledore said, his expression was a pleasant mask. “But I confess,” here he looked at his hands folded on the table in front of him and shook his head slightly. “I find myself curious about your opinion of what you saw.” 

“My opinion?” Dorcas asked. 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. He had that annoying habit of speaking to her in a way that made her feel like a student again. “What do you believe happened in the days leading up to Hepzibah Smith’s unfortunate end?” 

“Well,” Dorcas replied, adopting the tone she used when she was under a cross examination in court. Clinical, detached. “The memory that we retrieved shows Tom Riddle meeting with Ms. Smith. It seemed as if the meeting had been prearranged. He seemed to have been visiting her on behalf of his employers. This was one of a number of meetings they’d had. She showed him a couple of artifacts…” she shrugged as she came to the end of her inventory of the memory. 

Dumbledore nodded as she spoke, the consummate instructor. Dorcas felt as if she’d been called on to recite the principles behind a particularly complex Transfiguration spell. 

“In your opinion, did Tom Riddle murder Hebzibah Smith?” 

Dorcas inhaled. The question was weighty. She felt uncomfortable answering it. 

“I can’t say for sure,” she hedged. 

Dumbledore nodded again. This time, he seemed to anticipate her response. 

“The second memory would have confirmed it, I believe.” He stared at her over his half-moon spectacles. 

“I’m sorry, Professor. I did warn you what could happen if we tried to push Hokey.” She looked down at her hands, angry with herself for apologizing for wanting to prioritize her patient over the retrieval of a memory. 

“You and Tom were very close at school, were you not?” Dumbledore changed tack. 

Dorcas’s eyes shot from her hands to his face in an instant. 

“Yes.”

“Are you still close, Dorcas?” 

She couldn’t see where he was going with this. She’d lived out of the country for over ten years. She’d only spoken to Tom a handful of times since coming back to the UK. 

“Close with Tom? No.”

Dumbledore reached for the memory sitting on the desk between them and made a show of studying it. 

“On the night that you retrieved this, you didn’t meet Mr. Riddle afterward?”

Was he having her followed? She became aware of the optics of the chance encounter with Tom and saw it differently now. 

“Who’s your informant?” she asked. 

“I make it a point to remain friendly with the local barmen,” Dumbledore answered. 

“Tom, the barman at the Leaky Cauldron?” Dorcas shook her head. She knew the professor wasn’t omniscient, but his vast network made it appear so. “That wasn’t a planned meeting. I just wanted to get drunk after losing my patient. Tom happened to run into me there.” She knew it as she said it, that it probably wasn’t as much of a coincidence as she’d thought it was. 

“You were drinking at the Leaky Cauldron?” Dumbledore repeated, still smiling pleasantly. “And Tom Riddle happened to be passing by and stopped for a chat?”

‘Yes,” Dorcas confirmed. 

“Dorcas, during your time at Hogwarts I would have said you and Tom were extremely loyal to one another. Would you agree?”

“We were,” Dorcas responded. She began to feel as if she were on trial for something. 

“Loyal friends would be inclined to cover for one another, wouldn’t they?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“If Tom asked you to destroy evidence, Dorcas, would you do it?”

“Destroy evidence?” She didn’t understand where he was going with this. “The evidence is there. Look at it. You’ll see I haven’t tampered with it.” 

Dumbledore held up the memory in his hand and examined it. “This is not all of the evidence, is it, Dorcas?” 

It dawned on Dorcas that he was asking her, without asking her, if she’d killed Hokey to cover for Tom. 

“You asked for the elixir to extract the true memory of what happened. There it is, professor. There is the memory you’re after. If you’d have been patient, we could have extracted the memory of Ms. Smith’s murder in a day or two. Once we knew that Hokey could tolerate the dose. You were not patient, sir.” 

Dorcas was furious. There was no misunderstanding him. He thought she was colluding with Tom to cover for the murder of Hepzibah Smith. She stood, collecting her handbag and her gloves. 

“There’s all of the evidence that I was able to uncover, Professor.” She said, pointing to the glass phial in Dumbledore’s hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to obtain the other. There’s no more to say on the subject.” 

“Dr. Meadowes–” Dumbledore coaxed. 

“Happy Christmas, Professor,” Dorcas cut across his words and exited the office, retreating quickly down the stairs. 

:::

18 August 1940 Blackpool Abbey, Upper Flagley, Yorkshire

Dorcas found Jonas sitting beside a glassy millpond. He was enchanting the frogs on the banks of the water to fly a short distance before letting them drop about a meter above the surface. 

The look on his face was gloomy. 

She hadn’t meant to overhear the conversation between her uncle and her cousin. She was on the second floor shelves of the library, reading when Gimlet brought Jonas to Lysander. 

Dorcas peered over the ledge as far as she dared so that she could see the scene below. Jonas stood opposite his father, the great oak desk that Lysander sat at was a gulf between them. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Lysander asked in a steely voice. He slid a piece of parchment across the desk to his son. 

Dorcas watched her cousin shift from one foot to the other. 

“Read it,” Lysander commanded. 

Jonas took the paper tentatively. 

“Astronomy: seventy-seven percent, Charms: fifty-seven percent, Defense Against the Dark Arts: eighty percent, Herbology: seventy-five percent, History of Magic: sixty-three percent, Potions: seventy percent, Transfiguration: fifty-one percent…”

Lysander nodded slowly as his son recited his scores on his first year exams. “You barely passed Charms and Transfiguration,” Dorcas’s uncle pointed out. “When I pay for your schooling, I’m making an investment in your future, in the future of this estate, Jonas.” 

Jonas’s eyes slid to his shoes. 

“Am I making a good investment at the moment?” 

Jonas was almost inaudible from Dorcas’s position on the upper level. “No, sir.” 

“Should I turn you out into the field to become a shepherd? Or are you going to start living up to the expectations of the Rackharrow name?” 

Jonas didn’t answer at first. The silence became tense. Lysander never took his eyes off of his son. Dorcas could see Jonas shift where he stood, like a cornered animal. 

“Son, I asked you a question,” Lysander prompted. 

“I’m going to live up to the Rackharrow name,” Jonas answered, in the same barely audible voice. 

“Excellent,” Lysander pronounced. “What are you going to do differently in your second year at school?” 

Again, Jonas didn’t answer right away. 

“Son?” 

“I’m going to work harder,” Jonas answered vaguely. 

“That’s not very specific,” his father said. 

“I’m going to spend more time in the library at school studying,” Jonas answered. 

“A good plan,” Lysander agreed. “Have you completed your summer work from your teachers?”

Jonas’s face had brightened with the momentary praise, but fell immediately at the next question. 

“No, sir,” Jonas mumbled. 

“I want every assignment on my desk tomorrow morning. Is that clear, son?” 

Jonas’s eyes flicked to his father’s instantly. Dorcas thought he was about to argue. She was willing him not to. Uncle Lysander did not seem to be the type to tolerate insubordination. 

He looked away from his father and Dorcas breathed a quiet sigh of relief. 

“Yes, sir,” Jonas answered. 

Dorcas had waited for her cousin and then her uncle to leave the library before she stirred from her spot. 

She knew she would find Jonas out of doors, he wasn’t one for books and dark corners. 

“Can I sit?” Dorcas asked. 

Jonas had not heard her approach and jumped slightly when she spoke. The frog he was levitating dropped into the water with a soft plop. 

“Sure,” he replied, a note of dejection was still present in his voice. 

Dorcas didn’t know what to say. She thought for a moment about the relationship she had with her only living parent. She couldn’t imagine her mother speaking to her in the tone that her uncle had used on Jonas. Sure, her mother had been cross with her, she’d scolded her. But she had never received the sort of berating that she’d witnessed in the library. 

Perhaps if Dorcas had known her father, she would have a better understanding of the relationship that Jonas appeared to have with his father. Dorcas often wondered what her father would be like, what kind of voice he would have, what kind of things he would say to her. She’d never imagined her father having the sharp tone and the harsh words that Lysander had with Jonas. 

Dorcas settled for, “Do you want to study together before dinner?” It sounded lame. 

Jonas didn’t answer for a long while. He focused on the frogs that he sent zooming over the surface of the water. Dorcas wondered if he’d heard her. 

“No,” he said. Dorcas was about to stand and leave her cousin to sulk in peace. “But I guess I had better do it, whether I want to or not.” 

Dorcas nodded. 

“Do you know how this estate got its name?” Jonas asked, changing the subject. 

Dorcas was curious. She shook her head. 

“It was an abbey, you know, a convent,” Jonas began. 

Dorcas had guessed as much. She knew that many such places changed hands during the religious conflicts in Europe. Great Britain had many fine houses with the name abbey for this reason. 

“The Rackharrows seized the place from the nuns in the fourteenth century. The plague caused a lot of people to turn away from the Church. The Rackharrows used magic to heal the people of Upper Flagley. When the nuns renounced the witches and wizards of the family, the townspeople formed a mob.”

Dorcas couldn’t help but to gasp. She was shocked that a non magical community would rise in defense of a wizarding family. But she was also fearful of what would become of the nuns. 

“They tied sacks of rocks to all of the sisters and threw them into this pond,” Jonas indicated the water they now sat on the banks of. He sailed another frog over the surface and, plop, released it just meters from the water. 

Dorcas watched as each frog swam back to the shore in front of Jonas as if waiting for another opportunity to be launched into the water. 

“That’s why it’s known as the blackpool.”

“I read about one of your ancestors. He didn’t seem to be that nice,” Dorcas said, trying to reconcile what she’d read about Urquhart Rackharrow and the story of the family that saved the townspeople from a horrible disease. 

“None of the Rackharrows are, really. I think the ancestors who healed the townspeople knew they would turn on the nuns. The sisters were some of the largest property owners in Yorkshire at the time. The Church had a lot of wealth. The Rackharrows were free to claim it all as their own once the nuns were gone.” 

Dorcas looked at the smooth surface of the millpond and imagined thousands of bones lying at the bottom. Of course, any physical evidence of the sisters would be long gone centuries later.

:::

1 December 1957 Borgin and Burkes, 13B Knockturn Alley, London

Dorcas returned home from her meeting with Dumbledore seething. She’d expected him to be suspicious of her. After all, she was probably the closest friend Tom had at school. Dumbledore knew this. She’d always sensed his disapproval. She also supposed it was very incriminating that she went straight from the Smith’s townhome to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink with Tom. Dumbledore guessed that the meeting was clandestine. He only knew what the barman reported to him. Dorcas would never convince her former teacher that she was there to drink alone and that Tom had met her there by chance. 

But she would never have suspected that Dumbledore would accuse her of murdering Hokey to cover for Tom’s murder of Ms. Smith. It was unthinkable. 

But maybe, it made a sort of logical sense. 

There were many times that she’d stuck by Tom and defended him. There were times that he’d covered for her. He hid a body for her once. 

On some level, Tom was a better friend to her than she’d been to him. When it came to covering a murder for her, he’d acted unquestioningly to keep the blame from settling on her. 

Now, when it came time to return the favor, she’d handed the evidence of Tom’s transgression to the man who had the power to send him to prison forever. 

Dorcas reminded herself that the evidence was circumstantial. The only thing it proved was that Tom was at the scene two days before the murder. And though she and Gideon had heard Hokey say the man had often brought her mistress flowers, she couldn’t remember his name nor what he looked like. It was clear he’d altered her memory to forget him. But it did not offer conclusive proof of his connection to the actual homicide. 

Tom could be cleared by any competent solicitor if it came down to it. The memory that she’d uncovered didn’t entirely incriminate him. 

She had been pacing her office when her eyes alighted on the overcoat hanging from the rack next to the door. She was going to get to the bottom of the mystery. She was going to confront Tom. She was going to level with him. If he was carrying out some dark plan as Dumbledore suggested he was, she would dissuade him from it. She would make him see how close he’d come to being found out. She would make him see that he must abandon the foolish path he’d taken. 

Grabbing the coat, she left her house determined to seek out her former friend. She was not willing to be his pawn or Dumbledore’s. Dorcas would explain to Tom that she no longer wished to see him. He’d said the same thing to her, more or less, twelve years ago. She saw now that their paths had to diverge from one another’s once and for all. She would leave nothing about her feelings ambiguous. 

She Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron and crossed to the alley behind the pub. She tapped the bricks and tapped her foot at the tedious speed of the wall as it revealed Diagon Alley beyond. 

Turning right, she crossed into a darker side street and into the dusty shop with the black door. The sign swinging over it named the place: Borgin and Burkes. 

Entering the dimly lit shop, Dorcas felt many eyes on her from the leering masks hanging on the walls all around the shop. Implements of torture, bones (both human and non human) littered the shelves and countertops. 

The Tom she’d known in her youth had once described this place as macabre and theatrical. Dark and sinister, but in a false and preening way. She remembered this place as the entrance to some of their more daring escapades from school and into other parts of Wizarding and Muggle Great Britain. 

A sallow man with sunken cheeks and eyes under a heavy brow was behind the counter at the center of the deserted shop. 

He looked to Dorcas, dressed as she was like a Muggle, with a noticeable glare of disdain. 

“May I be of assistance, Miss?” he asked in a testy tone. 

Dorcas felt prompted to ask if her presence was keeping him from the rest of the customers clambering to purchase cursed playing cards or an enchanted fingerbone. She swallowed her irritation at the man who was clearly prejudiced against those who did not strictly keep to Wizarding kind. 

“I’m looking for a man who works for you. Mr. Riddle?” Dorcas asked instead. 

The man was surprised at her request and studied her from head to toe more carefully before responding. 

“He hasn’t reported in for days,” the man finally answered. “But that’s not unusual. May I inquire as to the nature of your association with my assistant?” 

Dorcas shifted Tom’s coat to her left hand and extended her right hand to the shopkeeper. “I’m Dorcas Meadowes. I knew Mr. Riddle at school.”

The man nodded and took her hand. “Caractacus Burke,” he replied. “Would you like to leave a message for your... _ friend _ ?” He drew out the last word, making clear to Dorcas that he didn’t believe her connection to Tom was benign. 

Dorcas smiled. “No, thank you. Maybe I’ll catch him at home.” 

“As you wish,” Burke said, turning from her disinterestedly once more, busying himself with arranging a tray of signet rings behind a glass. 

:::

Dorcas knocked on the door of the flat she’d once Apparated to with Tom. She only remembered its location on Galbraith Street because she had once been a frequent visitor of the record store that used to be down the street. Her own childhood home was about two blocks from here. 

When there was no response, Dorcas tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked and she let herself inside. 

She knew that Tom lived minimally. Her last visit to this flat yielded very little personal information on the adult life her one-time-friend had been living. To say the flat was sparse was an understatement. 

Now, as Dorcas surveyed the sitting room with the chair and table by the fire, even the few books that had once sat on the table were gone. She crossed to the kitchen and opened the cupboards to find them empty. 

Dorcas opened the door to the bedroom off of the kitchen. The bed was neatly made. The closet was vacant. 

Tom hadn’t been seen by his employer in days. His cupboards and closets were bare. Tom had disappeared. 

She couldn’t decide how she felt about this realization. She was pleased that he’d had the foresight to flee. Especially if he suspected that Dorcas had managed to extract the true memories of Hepzibah Smith’s death from Hokey. She was regretful about the part she’d played, unwitting as it was, in his discovery. But, on the other hand, she did not approve of his means of evasion. Tricking Hokey into taking the blame for her mistress’s death was underhanded. 

Dorcas folded the coat that Tom had lent her and placed it on the bed. 

She closed the door to the small room, at the same time closing a chapter where there existed a possibility of having Tom in her life once more. 

:::

18 August 1940 Blackpool Abbey, Upper Flagley, Yorkshire

Dorcas worked with Jonas for three hours before she heard the dressing gong sound in warning for Blackpool’s residents to ready themselves for dinner. 

Jonas heaved a sigh of relief as the gong announced a reprieve from work. He stretched his aching hand, a little dramatically in Dorcas’s estimation. 

“Any chance your father will allow us to work through dinner?” Dorcas asked hopefully. 

“Nope,” Jonas responded, jumping up from his chair and retreating from the library. 

Dorcas followed him out a little regretfully. She’d much prefer working in the library to a stuffy dinner. At the first landing, Jonas veered off down a corridor that held the private family quarters. Dorcas began to climb to the second floor where visitors’ rooms were located, but a noise stopped her. 

She retreated back to the first floor landing and stopped just shy of the second door on the right. 

The sound was a tiny little squeak and a crashing noise. 

“That’s far less than you deserve, Tooey,” she heard the snobbish voice of Gemma coming from the lighted doorway. “That was an expensive perfume you knocked over. It’s shattered.” 

“Tooey is sorry,” the elf squeaked again. 

Dorcas peered into the room, only gaining a partial vision of her cousin’s bedchamber. Gemma was seated at a vanity, Tooey had clearly been interrupted from arranging her hair. Gemma wore an emerald green satin evening gown. Dorcas knew it would set her green eyes and dark hair off dramatically. For a moment, she was jealous of her cousin’s stunning good looks. 

Tooey was kneeling on a rug, picking up pieces of broken glass and apologizing. From a distance, Dorcas could just make out a trickle of blood at the corner of the elf’s mouth. She gasped, but threw a hand up to her mouth to stifle it at the last second. 

The elf stood as she finished clearing away the shattered remains of a perfume bottle, vanishing it in midair. 

“Penance for the broken perfume, Tooey. But what should you do?” Gemma cast about the room and thought. 

“I know,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You should bang your head on the wall five times.” She smiled to her own reflection in the mirror, looking proud of devising a punishment for the elf. 

Tooey nodded obediently. “As my mistress wishes.” 

The house elf took a running start at the wall and hit her forehead against it. Hard. 

Dorcas could not stifle her gasp this time. Gemma looked at the doorway. 

“Why are you lurking there, filthy nuisance?” Gemma spat at Dorcas. 

Dorcas pretended not to hear the insult. She wanted to invent a tale that would get Tooey out of the room before she brained herself once again. 

“I need Tooey to help me with my dress and hair,” Dorcas said, putting on the same voice as Gemma’s. 

“She’ll see to you when she’s finished here,” Gemma responded dismissively, attempting to finish pinning up her own hair. 

Dorcas smiled pleasantly at her cousin. “Very well, please make my excuses to my aunt and uncle when I’m not at dinner on time.” She turned to walk away. 

She heard Gemma huff and speak to the elf. “You may go, Tooey.” 

When they were on the landing again, Dorcas finally spoke to Tooey. “Why was she making you do that?” 

Tooey looked questioningly at Dorcas. “Tooey always does the young mistress’s hair. Just as she does your hair, Miss Dorcas.”

“No,” Dorcas clarified. “Why did she order you to hit the wall? And why would you do it?”

They reached Dorcas’s room. A deep purple dress in a drapey and luxurious silk was laid out for her. Dorcas had not wanted to get used to all of the frippery and excess of life at Blackpool Abbey, but a fondness for the spectacular, if hand-me-down, fashions she got to wear for an hour began to creep into her heart. She got to pretend to be part of society for a moment each day. She could imagine herself cast in any number of elegant roles in a Hollywood film when she looked at her costume and hair in the mirror. 

“Tooey has to do as the young mistress commands. Tooey broke the mistress’s bottle and had to be punished.”

“Why did you break the bottle? Surely, if it was an accident, then there’s no need for punishment,” Dorcas pointed out, wanting to make sense of what she’d seen downstairs. 

Bing lounged on the bed, licking his paw. Dorcas gave him a scratch behind the ears before srtripping off her plain blue cotton dress, donning the beautiful purple one instead. She sat at the vanity in her own bedroom and looked at her reflection in the mirror. 

Tooey was barely visible behind her. Dorcas could only see swift hands pulling her plaits apart and arranging her hair, curling and pinning into a fashionable knot behind her left ear. 

“Tooey didn’t mean to break the bottle. She fell into Miss Gemma’s vanity and it hit the floor and smashed,” Tooey explained while she worked. 

“Why did you fall?” Dorcas could see that her inquisition was troubling Tooey. She stopped and apologized. “I’m sorry, Tooey. I don’t mean to be pushing in where I’m not wanted. But I didn’t like seeing Gemma treat you that way.”

“Tooey is fine. Miss Dorcas is kind to be concerned.” 

Dorcas could see that Tooey was not fine. There was a large bump visible on her forehead. Dorcas refused to imagine what the elf would have looked like had she not stopped the abuse after just one run at the wall. 

“Does Tooey have to punish herself a lot?” Dorcas asked finally. 

Tooey took a similar perfume bottle from Dorcas’s vanity and sprayed a delicate mist in Dorcas’s direction. 

“No,” Tooey answered, surveying Dorcas as she stood. “Tooey is usually more careful. She only fell because she was too rough with Miss Gemma’s hair. Tooey got a smack as a reminder to be gentle. But Tooey is usually more careful.” 

:::

Dorcas sat in the library after dinner, flipping through page after page of the most comprehensive spellbooks she could find. 

She wished now that she’d gone up to change out of the silly evening gown before agreeing to meet Jonas in the library to help him finish up the last of his summer essay assignments. She was distinctly uncomfortable now. She wanted to kick off her heels and sit cross legged. Only the yards of silk she wore prevented her from doing so. 

Jonas sat next to her completing a History of Magic essay on the Gargoyle Strike of 1911. He had cast off his dinner jacket (now around Dorcas’s shoulders) and his bow tie, which lay on the table beside him. 

He was writing furiously. Dorcas remembered the severe deadline his father had set for him. The work needed to be complete and on his desk by morning. They were in the final leg of the marathon work session. This was the very last assignment. 

Dorcas had set herself an assignment to accomplish as well. 

“Dorcas,” Jonas said, nudging her. 

Dorcas roused herself from her search of the spellbook in front of her. 

“What?” she asked tiredly, pulling herself out of her own thoughts. 

“I asked if you would read this paragraph,” he said again, more gently.

“Yeah,” she said, taking the parchment and laying it over the page she had been scanning. 

“What are you looking for in that book?” Jonas asked. He looked at the large book in front of Dorcas like a particularly disgusting insect. 

“I’m looking for a curse to use on your sister,” Dorcas said, offhandedly, reading over Jonas’s essay. “This is good. Just add one more paragraph about the Newcastle Resolution of 1912 and you’ll be done.” 

“Why do you want to curse Gemma?–Not that I object,” he added hastily, taking back his work. 

“She was being really wicked to Tooey this evening before dinner. I want to pay her back,” Dorcas explained. 

“It’s no use,” Jonas said darkly. “She’ll just pin it on one of the house-elves and they’ll get into trouble for it. Best not to do anything to Gemma.” 

Dorcas dismissed Jonas’s advice and continued her search, refining the criteria. Now she was looking for something nasty  _ and _ untraceable. She flipped to the next page and found just the thing. 

Arania Devoco. 

She read about the basic principles of the spell, the wandwork, and the proper pronunciation of the incantation. She closed the book with a triumphant smack. 

Jonas finished his essay with a sigh of relief and smiled at Dorcas in thanks. She returned his smile, feeling lighter than she had since she came to Blackpool Abbey. They left the library in exhausted silence. Dorcas practically floated up the stairs dreaming about the look on Gemma’s face when every spider in the house was summoned to her room in the night. 

:::

1 December 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

When Dorcas was unsettled, she would seek out solace in the basement lab. She busied herself with mindless activities like restocking ingredients. 

After putting Wren to sleep, she came downstairs to pickle some flame vine for the Blood Replenishing Potion. 

She wished Cal was home. She really wanted to talk to him about the events of the day. She looked at the clock on the wall above the shelf of freshly washed beakers and jars. He wasn’t due home for another half an hour. 

The rhythmic chopping, measuring, filling, and labeling helped her to process all that she’d experienced. 

What really ate at Dorcas was not the harsh accusations that Dumbledore had leveled at her. It wasn’t even the realization that when she’d learned of Tom’s crime against Hepzibah Smith, her first instinct had been to turn the evidence of it over to Dumbledore.

No. What Dorcas had been fighting for fifteen years to keep buried in the back of her mind had been resurfacing lately. 

She was a hypocrite. She’d looked on in shock the first time she saw Tom’s face in Hokey’s memory. She had been self-righteous in her decision to turn the memory over. 

All the while, she kept her own transgressions secret. What was more condemning than that? The fact that Tom had never told her secrets to anyone. Even now, he’d fled his home at Dorcas’s betrayal. But he’d never breathed a word to anyone about what she’d done on the last night of 1942. 

Her hands trembled and became numb at the fingertips. She lost control of the knife that she was using to dice flame vine and sliced the palm of her hand. Cursing, Dorcas threw the knife down and squeezed her palm shut. The flame vine was contaminated with blood. It was unusable. 

Unable to concentrate on the task of cleaning her mess, unable to focus through the tears in her eyes, she became lightheaded and sank to the floor beside the worktable she’d been chopping at. 

She wasn’t sure just how much time had passed. The lab door opened and Cal descended into the silent space. He removed his coat and hung it up by the door. 

“Clerey?” He asked. “Are you down here?” 

Dorcas blinked. She felt a brief but sharp pain behind her eyes. Her vision blurred for a moment and then cleared. 

“I’m here,” she answered, struggling to stand. 

Cal crossed the room with a questioning look at her as she rose. His look turned to concern when he saw her hand and the blood down the front of her blouse where she’d cradled it against her chest. 

“What happened?” He took her hand and looked at the cut. 

“An accident with the knife,” Dorcas said, endeavoring to sound as casual as possible. “It’s not deep,” she added as Cal rushed to the cupboard for Essence of Murtlap and a clean towel. 

He returned, in full healer mode. “Let me clean it,” he said, taking her hand. “Why were you on the floor? Did you feel faint?” 

“A little,” Dorcas said, remembering the lightheadedness and the quick, sharp pain in her head. 

“You don’t usually react that way to seeing blood,” Cal commented as he administered the Essence of Murtlap and dabbed at her sliced palm with the towel. Taking out his wand, Cal bound up the cut with a simple incantation. All that remained was a raised and shiny mark across her hand. 

“I know,” Dorcas answered, unable to account for the feeling she’d had. It wasn’t a woozy feeling, like she was about to pass out. It was more like losing cognitive function for an instant. It was hard to explain and over so quickly that Dorcas wondered if she’d even remembered it correctly. 

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said, changing the subject. 

He leaned against the work surface and looked at her carefully. He was silent. He knew that she had something on her mind and knew to give her the space to come out with it in her own time and in her own way. 

“I went to see Dumbledore today, as you know,” she began. 

Cal nodded, listening patiently. 

“It didn’t go well. He accused me of killing Hokey to cover for Tom. He knew that Tom ran into me at the Leaky Cauldron and assumed I’d gone there to meet him in order to pass off the memory we retrieved.” 

Cal’s brow furrowed. “How could he think that?” 

“You know how close Tom and I were at school,” Dorcas shrugged. She found it a little odd that she was defending Dumbledore’s supposition to Cal. “Well, he doesn’t know about the way we parted, does he?” 

Cal nodded, conceding the point, but didn’t answer. 

“Anyway, this whole business of Hokey’s memory and how it implicates Tom. It’s dredged up some memories from my past,” Dorcas tried to continue. Her voice began to shake as she came to the part of her confession that she swore she would never make. 

“What kind of memories?” Cal asked, placing a hand on her back, rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades. 

Cal never asked about anything from Dorcas’s past that she did not offer up voluntarily. He knew, from an outsider’s point of view, most of the dynamic of her relationship with Tom. She’d told him only a surface amount of detail about how she became pregnant with Ryann. He knew about the painful break up only a short time later. 

But she strictly avoided anything she knew that would incriminate herself, or more especially anything that would incriminate Tom. 

“One memory in particular,” Dorcas said, inhaling in an effort to steady her voice. “Tom helped me to--” she couldn’t force herself to say the words. They were stuck. She had a sensation of choking on them. She cleared her throat, but couldn’t get them out. 

“You could show me,” Cal said, understanding her struggle to voice what she wanted to tell him. “In the Pensieve. You could show me what happened. Dorcas, whatever it is, I want to understand. I want to help you. You can trust me with anything.” 

Dorcas nodded and allowed him to lead her up the stairs and from the lab. 

:::

31 December 1942 The Black Dahlia, Upton Circle, London

Dorcas was happy to play the piano most nights at the club where her neighbor Betty Balfour sang. When she was home from school these opportunities allowed her to do what she loved, as well as earn a little pocket money. And it was far more glamorous than working at a shop somewhere in Poplar. 

Tonight, Betty was with her GI boyfriend celebrating New Years’ Eve. Dorcas was able to step out from the bandstand and sing. 

In one of her cousin Gemma’s hand-me-down, but still elegant evening gowns Dorcas felt like a starlet under the spotlight. The first time she’d been forced to the microphone as a sub-in for Betty, she’d protested until Marvin the owner begged and doubled her pay for the evening. 

Dorcas found, to her surprise, she reveled in the sensation of becoming someone else. She thought of her stage persona as an alter ego. Barely anyone of her friends at school knew of the moonlighting Dorcas did when she was on holiday breaks. 

Cal had found out. And not too long after that, Cherry and Anneliese knew of her secret life too. 

Tonight, there was a larger crowd than usual owing to the holiday. More than half the room were men in uniform; a little rowdy, but good natured. 

Dorcas began her set with a few numbers for the boys. ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’, ‘We’ll Meet Again’, and ‘Uncle Sam Gets Around’. The audience’s energy was up and so was hers. 

The band usually began to slow the tempo about halfway through a set. One of her favorites to perform was up next. 

Tonight, Dorcas was in a Christmassy red satin dress with matching gloves that came to her elbows. The neckline plunged a little lower than she’d have preferred. She wished Tooey were here to make some slight alterations. Gemma’s dresses were often a little snug in the bust. She’d arranged her hair and pinned it like Peggy Lee’s. 

There was a young American standing off to the right of the stage, resplendent in his uniform. He’d come in with some friends, all of whom had partnered up and spent their time on the dancefloor. Dorcas caught his eye a few times earlier in the set. He’d even winked at her as she sang. 

A familiar intro, Dorcas knew this number by heart. It was always a crowd pleaser and fit her voice just right. 

_ You had plenty money, 1922 _

_ You let other women make a fool of you _

_ Why don’t you do right, like some other men do? _

Dorcas surveyed the crowd of faceless clubgoers, dancing, drinking, laughing. She didn’t anticipate seeing a familiar face staring back at her. 

Tom wasn’t expected. He usually didn’t spend his Christmas holiday in London, preferring instead a solitary two weeks at Hogwarts. He looked at home in the crowd, blending in was a natural skill of his. He also looked out of place at the same time, somehow above the company. 

He made no attempt to mask his admiration of Dorcas under the spotlight, smiling up at her as she performed. Her alternate personality slipped under his gaze. She stumbled a bit on the lyrics. 

The American whistled encouragingly, inciting Dorcas to blush. 

_ Get out of here and get me some money too.  _

Dorcas finished the song, but turned to the trumpeter, Donald, and asked him to play on without her. Exiting the stage to ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’, Dorcas retreated to the alley behind the club for some fresh air. 

She was confused as to why Tom’s presence at the Black Dahlia had disconcerted her so much. Was it really that bad that he knew about her secret performances? She’d been embarrassed when Cal had seen her perform at the club, but it was nothing to the panic she felt now. She thought somehow that Tom would judge her stage performance as base and beneath her. 

Out in the cold night air, away from the band and the noise and the smoke, Dorcas felt she could think more clearly. 

“That was some performance,” a voice close behind her chimed. There was applause. 

The American that hadn’t moved from his spot by the stage was now standing close to her in the alley. He took a final drag from his cigarette and flicked it to his right where it fell next to a stack of crates. He slowly advanced on Dorcas. 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked. 

Dorcas took a step backward and then another. She’d had men compliment her singing, her looks. Walter, the barkeeper, was usually the one to tell the lovestruck fools that she was underage. Her bandmates also kept a fairly sharp eye out for trouble if it came her way. 

She regretted coming out into the alley where she was alone with the young soldier. 

“It’s Dorcas,” she said, quickly adding, “I’ve got to finish my set.” 

He stretched his left arm out, hand resting on the wall. Blocking her path. He stepped closer still. 

Dorcas felt the cool brick against her shoulder blades. Her wand was in her right glove. She’d learned to always keep it at hand, no matter where she was or what she was doing. 

His right hand moved to her left shoulder, tracing the neckline of her dress with his finger. 

“Dorcas,” he said, his breath mingled with hers in the frigid air. “You’re beautiful.” 

Dorcas made a motion like she was pulling up her glove and reached for her wand. She held it threateningly between them. 

“I said, I have to finish my set,” Dorcas repeated. 

The soldier’s eyebrows creased in confusion. “What is that?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer, he batted her wandhand aside and pressed his lips roughly to hers, causing her to bang her head against the bricks. 

Dorcas shoved as hard as she could with her left hand and waved her wandhand at him, yelling “ _ Stupify _ ”. 

The man crumpled helplessly to the ground. Dorcas looked around the alley to make sure that no one had seen her perform magic. The alley was deserted apart from her and her would be attacker. 

She crouched beside the man to make sure he was breathing. A Stunning Spell should only knock him out for about thirty seconds. When Dorcas neared the man’s motionless form, however, she saw blood pooling under his neck. 

“Birdie?” 

Tom had stepped into the alley. His eyes went wide when he saw her crouched next to the soldier. 

Frantically, Dorcas stood and tried to explain. She knew she was in trouble. She knew the soldier was dead. He’d hit his head on the stack of crates as he fell. She didn’t know what to do. She only knew that Tom couldn’t be here too. She could not involve him in her mistake. 

Tom crossed the alley and grabbed her by the arms. “Did he hurt you?” 

Dorcas shook her head numbly. “Tom, he’s dead.” 

He looked her up and down. Satisfied that she was not injured, he instructed her firmly but quietly, “You need to go back inside. You’ll be missed soon.” 

“Tom,” she said, blinking stupidly. “I can’t leave him here. We’ve got to get someone. He’s dead.” 

“No,” Tom said. He took her face in his hands and forced her to look at him instead of the dead man at her feet. “You’re not going to tell anyone. You’re going to go back inside and finish the set.”

Dorcas tried to pull his hands away and argue his plan down. She knew they needed to call the police. 

“Birdie,” Tom said, forcefully, “Go back inside. Now.” 

Without willing them to do so, Dorcas’s feet carried her back inside the Black Dahlia. 

Taking the stage once again to cheers and whistles, Dorcas sang ‘I’m Nobody’s Baby’. Her voice became steadier and more confident with each verse. She surprised herself. She’d never have believed she could kill someone and then climb onto the stage and sing a Judy Garland song without the suspicion showing up on her face. She was awed and disgusted at the same time with how naturally she wore the deception. 

  
  



	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

2 December 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Cal was steadfast and absolutely unshakeable. Dorcas wondered how his constancy always seemed to surprise her. She should know by now not to test the bounds of his love. There seemed to be no limit. 

If she feared that he would see her differently after showing him the memory of the night she’d killed someone, she needn’t. When she and Cal emerged from the Black Dahlia, the tune of ‘I’m Nobody’s Baby’ an earworm stuck in their heads, he pulled her in close and wrapped her up in his arms. 

“I never wanted to show you that memory,” she said against his chest, guilty tears warm on her cheeks. 

“You can trust me with anything,” Cal said again. He’d said this to reassure her before she brought him into the memory. She’d wanted more than anything to believe that statement. But her crime was so awful that she’d doubted his words. 

There was little doubt left now, after he’d seen Dorcas cast the spell that had caused the man to fall. 

“I know I should have called for the police. I know it wasn’t the right thing, what Tom and I did,” Dorcas wanted very much for Cal to think better of her. She wanted to impress upon him that she knew how very wrong her choices had been. 

“Maybe,” Cal said, stroking Dorcas’s hair. “I’m not sure what I would have done in the same situation. I might have done the same thing Tom did.” 

Dorcas was surprised again. She couldn’t think of two dissimilar people in temperament and motives than Cal and Tom. But, she supposed they did have common ground at one time or another. That common ground was her. 

“Really?” She pulled back from Cal’s embrace to study his face. 

“Yes,” Cal answered. “Watching that creep put his hands on you made me want to kill him. I’m not saying that it was right. I’m just saying that I understand your motivations and I understand Tom’s.” 

“I’m such a hypocrite,” Dorcas said, swiping at her tears angrily. 

“No.” Cal argued, resting his hands on Dorcas’s hips. “You can’t honestly compare what happened with that guy in the alleyway to what Tom did to that old lady?” 

“Can’t I?” Dorcas wasn’t following. Tom had helped her to cover her crime. She didn’t show him the same loyalty. 

“Dorcas.” He drew his arms around her again. “The man attacked you. You defended yourself. It was an accident. Tom planned that woman’s murder. They are not the same.” He kissed her forehead to emphasize his point. 

Dorcas felt lighter. Cal made a lot of sense. She nodded and wrapped her arms around him, hanging on like a lifeline. 

“Anyway,” Cal said, pulling her behind him and out of the office. “You said he’s gone, right? So, you don’t turn him in, you don’t cover for him. He’s moved on and now, so can you.”

She followed Cal to their bedroom. Dorcas finally felt like she could sleep. She hadn’t had a peaceful night since before Hokey’s death. 

:::

31 August 1940 Blackpool Abbey, Upper Flagley, Yorkshire

Dorcas was missing her mother. She’d visited Dorcas at Blackpool Abbey yesterday. Although it was plain to her that her mother was not comfortable on the grounds of her former home, Dorcas was glad she’d come. 

She brought news of home with her and some sweets from a shop that Dorcas liked to visit down the street from their flat. Dorcas had wished that Morty could have come for a visit as well. But, her mother explained, he would not tolerate the long trip and would be too unsettled to be back at Blackpool. 

Mary-Ellen described a bombing close to the waterfront only a week prior to her visit. This was several blocks from their home, but it made Dorcas fear for her mother and for her uncle. They’d had to evacuate to the Underground for two hours until the air raid warnings ceased. 

With a tight hug, Mary-Ellen said that she was grateful that she didn’t have to worry about Dorcas being in danger. 

Walking down a forested path, a handful of wildflowers clutched in her fist, Dorcas could hardly imagine the terror of bombing raids anymore. Yorkshire seemed to be as far away from the war as one might hope to be. 

She thought about the time earlier in the summer when she’d sat in the Underground clutching Morty to her and holding Tom’s hand. She wondered how her friend was getting on now that London was on high alert. Would the orphanage have sent the children away to the country like her mother had sent her away? Had Tom changed his cavalier attitude toward Fritz and his bombs? 

Dorcas stumbled over a tree root in the well worn path. She hadn’t been paying attention to where she’d been going. In truth, she didn’t recognize any of the scenery around her. She’d set out only an hour ago. Maybe it was longer. She wasn’t too sure. She didn’t want to spend the day inside again, hiding in the library. She was too distracted by her mother’s visit and the worries and questions it had raised. 

A thick copse of trees with an enticing little path winding through it seemed just the thing to occupy Dorcas’s limbs while her mind mused. She’d picked flowers, watched a rabbit munching on some grass, and even spied a hawk. 

The sun was getting lower in the sky. Dorcas couldn’t judge how late in the day it was now. She wondered how long she’d been walking and in which direction. She spun on her heel and decided to head back the way she’d come. If the dressing gong had been rung, she’d probably receive a lecture about tardiness and keeping others waiting. She remembered how stern her uncle had been with Jonas and hurried her pace. 

She knew she was missed at the dinner table when Gimlet met her at the door. 

“Hurry, Miss,” the little creature urged her. He held the large front door open and waved her in frantically. 

Even with the elf’s insistence that she hurry, Dorcas could tell it was no use. The rest of the family was already seated in the dining room. She had a choice to make: rush upstairs to change rendering her unforgivably tardy, or enter the dining room in the plain cotton dress and dusty shoes she’d been wearing out of doors. She decided to risk looking offensive, rather than to keep everyone waiting. 

Still clutching her bunch of wildflowers, she approached the table with trepidation. She caught her Aunt Eden’s eye first. Eden gasped and looked at Dorcas like a dog covered in mud. 

Seated next to her mother, Gemma turned up her nose. “You are an absolute fright, Dorcas Clerey!”

Dorcas looked over Gemma’s shoulder and made a dramatic gasp. Then she sighed and placed a hand to her chest. “Sorry,” she said. “I thought I saw a spider.” 

Gemma reacted as Dorcas knew she would. She jumped in her chair and turned, knocking over her water glass in the process. 

Jonas stifled a laugh under his hand. 

Dorcas’s uncle was the last one to react to Dorcas. He barely looked in her direction, but addressed her anyway. “Good of you to join us, niece.” He motioned to Gimlet, who followed in Dorcas’s wake, to pour the wine and serve dinner. 

“These are for you,” Dorcas said, laying the wildflowers next to her Aunt Eden’s place before taking her own seat next to Jonas. 

Eden eyed the wilted bunch laying too close to her cutlery and inched them a little further away with her pinky finger. “How lovely, thank you dearest,” she said, endeavoring not to sneer. 

It had been her mother’s suggestion to do something nice for her hostess. 

When dinner was finished and the plates were being cleared, Dorcas thought no more would be said about her lack of punctuality or the appropriateness of her attire. Before she could push her chair back and ask to be excused, her uncle set down his wineglass and looked in her direction. 

“Before you go up for the night, Dorcas, I would like a word in the library.”

Dorcas looked at Jonas who shrugged almost imperceptibly. She caught Gemma’s gloating smirk as she turned back to her uncle and nodded. 

“Yes, sir.” 

She couldn’t decide if her uncle asking for a word was more or less frightening than a teacher asking her to stay behind class. Either way, there was a lecture in store to be sure. 

:::

Dorcas took a moment to say goodbye to some of the portraits in the library. She studied the face that stood sentry over her hiding place on the second-level shelves. She was unsure if she would ever see him again after tonight. 

He was a tall man with an intimidating bearing. She may even have thought him handsome, if he’d not been glowering. The first few days that she’d taken up residence in the shelves he’d stood silently next to a tall black charger in armor. 

She’d mistakenly thought his was the kind of painting that didn’t move. 

“What will you do with the knowledge you gain from all of that reading?” a solemn question had voiced itself from over her shoulder. 

She’d turned, nearly jumping out of her skin at the sound when she knew no one else had been there. The horse knickered and the man in fine ermine lined cape leveled a questioning glance down at her from his lofty perch. 

“Do I have to do something with it? Can’t I just  _ know _ it?” Dorcas had asked. 

This was the first of many debates she’d had with, the plaque below his portrait proclaimed, Tytos Rackharrow, his steed Capricorn looking on with a toss of his mane every once in a while.

Tonight, Dorcas was feeling nostalgic about their first conversation. 

“Tytos,” she called, coming up the spiral steps. “Just wanted to say goodbye. I’m off to school tomorrow.” 

“And what will you do with all of the knowledge you’ll gain from school, young lady?” he said, recalling their first words as well. 

She shrugged. “Use it to do something good in the world.” 

“Admirable,” he nodded, patting Capricorn’s neck. “Nothing too good, I hope?”

She smiled. “I may not see you again after tonight. I had nice chats with you.”

Tytos looked down at her. “I hope that is not the case. I have enjoyed our chats as well. If this is farewell, then be good. But run mad a little for balance.” 

Her uncle strode into the room and closed the doors behind him. 

“Dorcas, come down here, please,” he said. 

Dorcas waved at Tytos and Capricorn and descended. 

Stepping behind his large desk, her uncle motioned to a chair opposite his. “Have a seat.”

Dorcas obeyed him without a word, steeling herself for a telling off. At least, she reminded herself, if he lectured her tonight, it was her last night in this old and drafty place and she’d never have to come back again. She congratulated herself for having avoided a dressing down before this. 

Lysander sat and appraised her from behind his desk.    


“Have you enjoyed your time here, Dorcas?” 

Dorcas thought it was a curious way to begin a telling off. Maybe he was setting her up to feel bad about her ingratitude. She didn’t know whether honesty or flattery was called for. 

“I’ve missed my mother and my,” here Dorcas was about to say uncle, then stopped herself. Lysander was her uncle too. But she thought of him and Morty in such different terms. “Morty,” she finished flatly. 

“I know,” Lysander said gently. “It’s a hard thing to be so far away from home. I had hoped your mother would be able to visit more often. She hasn’t been allowed much time off. But I’m sure she’s explained all of that to you. Did you enjoy your visit with her yesterday?” 

Dorcas was confused. This may be the most her uncle has ever spoken to her. And he was being solicitous, even kind. Her impression of him was so contrary to this figure before her now. 

“Yes,” Dorcas said. Not wanting to say more and remind her uncle why he’d asked her here in the first place. 

“Have you been treated well during your stay?” Lysander continued his interview. “Have the staff and your cousins treated you with kindness?”

Dorcas thought about Tooey. She was the kindest and funniest little house-elf that Dorcas had met. She enjoyed the moments Tooey was able to spare to play the piano with her. Gimlet, though much more reserved, was a help to Dorcas. He always pointed out when she erred with little etiquette trifles at tea time before her aunt noticed. 

Jonas had become a friend. 

Dorcas thought about Gemma. She’d made her disdain for Dorcas quite clear. But, as Dorcas didn’t share any classes or common friends with her older cousin, her opinion of Dorcas mattered very little. 

“Yes, everyone’s been kind.” 

“I am pleased to hear it.” He seemed to be weighing his next words before he proceeded. It made Dorcas nervous. She got a sense that he was trying to tread carefully. 

“I spoke to your mother before she left yesterday. Circumstances seem to be getting worse in London. Most schools are being shuttered and children are being sent north to the country, like you have been. If your mother determines that it is not safe for you to return to her at Christmastime, would you like to come here?” 

Dorcas was crestfallen. The thought of being away from her mother for the holiday was a gloomy prospect. On top of that, the idea that things had become so dire in London that children were being sent away indefinitely worried her. She thought about the danger that her mother and Morty must constantly live under. 

“We host a rather jolly holiday party every year. We may be able to get your mother and Morty up here to stay, if your mother can get the time away. What do you say to that?” 

Dorcas had the impression that her mother had coached him on how best to entice her to stay for the holiday break. Her mother must be very worried for her to come home, in that case. 

“I want to be with my family at Christmas,” Dorcas said, trying to keep the hopelessness out of her voice. It seemed as though her mother and uncle had already decided for her. Her agreement to the scheme didn’t matter in the least. She was so distressed she hadn’t caught her thoughtless slip at the phrase “my family”. 

Her uncle’s face showed an uncharacteristic amount of understanding and sympathy. “I know, child. That may not be possible this year. We all have to bear up as best as we can in these times. But the war won’t last forever.” 

Dorcas nodded, but didn’t respond. 

“You may be excused. Goodnight.” 

She retreated from the library thinking she’d probably have preferred a lashing for being late to dinner over being told she’d have to return here in less than four months. The only thing that cheered her was the prospect of heading off to school tomorrow morning. 

Dorcas opened her bedroom door to find Jonas laying on her bed with Bing perched on his chest. 

“Let me guess,” he said to her as she entered and shut the door behind her. “It wasn’t a telling off at all, was it?” 

“I wish it had been,” Dorcas said darkly, pushing his foot aside and pulling her nightgown from beneath it. She retreated behind the dressing screen in the corner and changed for bed. “He wanted to know if I’d like to stay for Christmas.” 

“Excellent!” Jonas said. 

“I’d rather be home,” Dorcas said. Tossing her plait over her shoulder and emerging from behind the screen, buttoning her nightgown. 

“Yeah,” Jonas answered scratching Bing’s head. “But I like you being here. It’s less lonely.” 

Dorcas felt a pity for Jonas at his admission of loneliness. She knew what loneliness could feel like, but at least in London there had been plenty to occupy her. And, even though Dorcas didn’t have siblings, Morty was as close as a brother to her. He was far better company than Gemma. She’d never stopped to consider Jonas’s position in his family before. 

She climbed into bed next to him and stared at the ceiling. 

“Is your father always hard on you?” Dorcas had wondered if the scene she’d witnessed in the library a week ago was an isolated event or a regular occurrence. 

“He didn’t used to be. There was a time when he’d just ignore me. But now that I’m in school he’s constantly on me about my marks. Going on and on about his legacy and the family name.” There was a distinct note of irritation in his voice. 

“It must be hard being the heir to a place like this,” Dorcas thought aloud. 

Jonas exhaled. “You have no idea. Nobody ever asks me what I want. It’s always about what’s expected of me.”

“What do you want?” Dorcas asked. 

Jonas thought for a while. “I want to be a Spitfire pilot.” 

Dorcas looked at her cousin. “Really?” She was not expecting that answer. 

“Yeah, I’ve read about them. Flying planes sounds exciting. Battling in the sky, but not on broomsticks or with magic, but in a machine with real guns.” 

Dorcas smiled. Talking with Jonas felt so similar to talking with Morty. She hadn’t realized, but he’d become her greatest comfort in this formal and foreign place far from any familiarity of home. 

And his enthusiasm for Muggle things reminded her endearingly of Cherry. 

“What do you want?” he asked her. 

Dorcas blinked up at the ceiling and thought. She recalled their ancestor, Tytos Rackharrow’s words to her weeks and weeks ago. “ _ What will you do with all of that knowledge?”  _ Her initial impression had been that Tytos was an archetypal male from the past. Ideas in a woman’s head couldn’t lead to anything good. But the more she’d talked with him, she’d gained a different perspective. Knowledge for the sake of knowledge was to be discouraged. Knowledge employed in a purpose was to be encouraged. She thought about her response to him tonight when he renewed the question.  _ “Use it to do something good in the world.”  _

“I might like to be a doctor,” Dorcas mused. 

Jonas inhaled sharply. “One of those Muggle madmen who cut people open and sew them back up?” 

She pictured Victor Frankenstein and laughed. “No, like a healer. But Muggle doctors don’t know magic. They have to rely on science and experimentation in order to heal people.” 

Dorcas became excited about the prospect as she spoke aloud her aims to her cousin. “Maybe I could help a lot of people if I could merge the two, magical and Muggle healing.” 

“Maybe,” Jonas answered, sounding skeptical. 

:::

2 September 1940 Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas was pleased to be back among friends and eager to begin another year of school. Armed now with a goal for her life after school, she was most especially keen to apply herself in any and all subjects that could help her to realize her ambition for medicine. 

She sat at the Ravenclaw table scanning her new schedule, making note of the classes she would share with Anneliese or Cherry. She found herself skimming to see which classes she’d share with Jonas too. 

Dorcas’s schedule informed her that she would share History of Magic and Potions this year with fellow second year Hufflepuffs, including Anneliese. She would be in Potions again with Cherry as well as History of Magic. And her Charms and Transfiguration classes would be shared with Jonas and the other second year Slytherins. Dorcas thought this last bit of scheduling was a stroke of good luck as these were the classes that Jonas struggled with the most. 

She intended to help him keep his agreement with his father to make better marks this year. She resolved to drag him along to the library with her at least once a week. 

Dorcas was nodding but only half listening to June Riley’s recounting of her two-week holiday to Majorca, looking away from her schedule long enough to make eye contact and smile at her roommate. 

Astronomy would have one class at midnight on Fridays. Dorcas was already strategizing how she would stay awake in order to follow the lesson that late at night. Only, as she thought about it, she realized she’d been preparing for this all last year, she supposed, sneaking out at all hours of the night with Tom. 

Thinking about their midnight wanderings, Dorcas’s eyes instinctively found him over June’s shoulder sitting at the next table with his housemates. He was politely listening to her cousin Gemma while he looked over his own schedule. Dorcas recalled her cousin’s shrieks of terror, ringing clear as a bell, on the night she’d summoned every spider at Blackpool Abbey to Gemma’s bed. 

“Dorcas,” June said waving a hand in front of Dorcas’s face. “Are you listening to me?” 

Dorcas shook her head a little and let the memory of her cousin’s screams fade. She hadn’t realized she was smiling at the pleasant memory. 

“Yes, I’m listening,” Dorcas answered, giving her roommate renewed attention. 

“Are you? Because I am showing you a scar from where a fire crab burned me and you’re smiling like a maniac.” 

Dorcas wiped the smile from her face. “I’m sorry, I was remembering something funny.” She finished with a note of (hopefully) convincing sympathy. “That must have been painful.” 

Owls began to swoop low over the tables, depositing the days post and a fair amount of feathers. Their entrance spared Dorcas from further feigning interest in June’s trip or her apparently near death encounter with a fire crab. 

Dorcas was surprised that two of the letters carried in by the owls were addressed to her. 

One was from her mum. Dorcas smiled. Her mum probably wrote it just after she’d visited Blackpool. It had only been three days since she’d seen her. But she missed her. 

The other envelope surprised Dorcas and she ripped it open immediately, eager to get at its contents. It was from Harriet Finnigan, the author of the Wingate book that had fanned Dorcas’s curiosity about what had happened to her uncle Morty there over twelve years ago. 

She scanned the letter quickly and then read it again more carefully. 

_ Miss Clerey,  _

_ I am astonished that you came across my little bit of writing. Not many copies of it exist. I had to overcome quite a few hurdles in publishing that work. Under strict instructions from the publishing house (who were under strict instructions themselves from authorities unknown) I was prevented from mentioning the specific incantations used in treatments at Wingate Institution. I am intrigued by your personal connection to that infamous place and would like to know more. However, I prefer not to discuss the particulars of my investigations over owl correspondence.  _

_ I wonder if you are free to meet in person? I would be ever so delighted to speak to another inquisitive mind on the topic at length. I will be in London until the end of September. I am a journalist and will be taking an assignment on the continent for several months. I most sincerely hope to hear from you before quitting the country.  _

_ Warm regards, _

_ H. Finnigan _

Dorcas’s mind began to work out how she could get to London and meet with the woman in person. But she couldn’t think of any practical solution to the insurmountable problem of geography. She was here at school and Ms. Finnigan would be leaving in a month for the continent. She thought about the kind of exciting life a journalist must live. What stories she must be seeking out in occupied France or Belgium? Or maybe she would be traveling to Franco’s Spain or Stalin’s Soviet States. 

Dorcas shoved the note into her pocket along with her unopened letter from her mother. She walked with June and Zelda to Defense Against the Dark Arts trying to compose her response to Ms. Finnigan in her mind. 

:::

6 September 1940 Greenhouse 5, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas tried to follow Zelda and June’s conversation as they exited the greenhouse after a double Herbology lesson. They were debating their chances at gaining the vacant Chaser position on the Ravenclaw team. Dorcas was mildly interested in Quidditch. She enjoyed being a spectator, though she didn’t support any British League teams. She felt inept at holding a conversation with a true fan, but knew enough to muddle along in near silence. 

“What do you think, Dorcas?” Zelda asked, turning to her as they followed the gravel path up to the school. “Is being a good Chaser more about speed or accuracy?” 

Dorcas thought about this question for a moment. She really didn’t feel that she knew enough to contribute in any meaningful way. She figured a Chaser needed a fair amount of both. She thought about her friends’ abilities. June was a very precise flyer and demonstrated quick reflexes. Zelda, on the other hand, had been the fastest flyer of the first years during flying lessons last year. 

The thought of flying lessons made her shudder inwardly. That was a memory she would dearly like to forget. She never thought of herself as being afraid of heights before the lessons. But her inaugural flight on broomstick had proved that beyond any doubt. 

She supposed she should not answer truthfully that if they could combine their skills, they would make one fine Chaser. As they could not. They would probably be passed over for an older student. 

A thought came to Dorcas’s mind that was not her own. She was unsure of the owner of the vision. It was someone close to the edge of the forest. She saw a scenario play out in her mind’s eye in which he, for she knew it was a boy’s thoughts she was experiencing, wanted to lure someone beyond the trees. Other boys were waiting just far enough into the Forbidden Forest not to be spied by others who may be on the grounds. She saw the target of the plan: it was the new boy, the overlarge one that had sat on the train by himself. 

The sight of him in the unknown bully’s mind made Dorcas feel a stab of conviction for her own choices on the day they’d boarded the train back to school. Even though she’d known what it felt like, albeit briefly, to sit by herself and to think that not a single soul would take notice of her or talk to her, she’d seen him sitting in an otherwise deserted compartment and passed him by in search of her group of friends. 

She remembered how he looked, his wiry black hair stuck out at odd angles. He was quite a bit larger than the other students at school. He was far bigger even than Oliver Knott, one of the Slytherin Beaters. He was an absolute ogre of a boy. But the first year who sat alone on the train outweighed him, Dorcas was sure of it. 

Dorcas saw the boy who was to be the victim of the ambush coming around the side of the paddock where he’d been feeding two mooncalves. Thinking on her feet she decided to call out to him and distract him before the boys had a chance to carry out their attack. 

Oh, what was his name? She’d tried to think back to the Sorting Ceremony from almost a week ago now. She hadn’t really been paying attention as she was excited to be back among her fellow Ravenclaw students. She could remember that she and Glynnis Howard had been chatting about spells they’d dared to try out over the summer despite the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. But then, her conversation had tapered out as the hall grew silent. When the enormous boy’s name had been called, he timidly inched forward while Professor Maynard patiently held the Sorting Hat above the stool awaiting his approach. 

Dorcas scrunched her eyes closed, trying to remember the name in Professor Maynard’s voice just before the hall got quiet. “Rubeus Hagrid,” she heard in the Charms Professor’s ringing trill. 

When the hat announced that he would be joining Gryffindor House, the students at the far table erupted. Darren Barton was heard shouting a welcome to Gryffindor’s new Quidditch Keeper, patting the current Keeper, Cal Meadowes on the back. 

“Dorcas,” June said, waving her hands frantically in front of Dorcas’s face as Zelda looked on with concern. 

Dorcas snapped back to the present. 

“Where do you go when you check out like that?” June asked in astonishment. 

“Sorry,” Dorcas apologized for letting her mind wander. “You two go on ahead. I think I left something in Greenhouse 5.” 

“Are you sure?” Zelda asked. “We could come with you.” 

“No,” Dorcas said, turning back toward the greenhouse. “Just save me a seat at lunch. I won’t be long.” 

She raced back the way they’d just come, but veered away from the greenhouses and toward the paddock as her friends disappeared inside of the castle. 

“Rubeus,” she called, hoping she’d gotten the name right. 

The boy looked up, confusion on his face. He wasn’t watching where he was putting his hand and the mooncalf he was feeding tore his sleeve rather than the chard he’d been trying to give it. 

“Yeah?” the first year watched her approach warily. “I wasn't doin’ nothin’ ter him. I was jus’ feedin’ him and talkin’ ter him a bit.” 

Dorcas realized that he took her shouting to mean he was in trouble. She was struck by how timid he seemed despite his size. A perfect target for the goons hiding just beyond the tree line. 

“No, you’re not in trouble. Besides, I have no authority to yell at you. I just think you should come with me up to the castle. It’s lunchtime.” 

She knew this was a lame excuse to get him away from the boys who were probably in earshot of them right now. She cast about for the mind of the boy whose thoughts had invaded her own moments ago. She found the thread of the boy’s consciousness and saw herself reflected there and irritation at her appearance. 

“Nah,” Rubeus said, looking at his feet. “I don’ wan’ ter go up there. Everyone jus’ wants ter stare and talk ‘bout me like I’m not there.” 

“I’m not talking about you like you’re not here. I’m talking directly to you.” 

He didn’t argue, he just continued to pull pieces of chard from a stalk in one hand and feeding them to the mooncalves, who stared back with goggled eyes that shimmered in appreciation. 

“My name’s Dorcas,” she said, shifting her bag so that she could offer him her hand. 

When he took it to shake, half of her forearm disappeared in his fist along with her hand. But he was careful not to shake too hard, she could see how aware he was of his size and his strength. All the same, she stumbled forward a little when her hand was shaken. 

“Rubeus,” he said. “But yeh knew tha’ already.” 

She nodded and motioned for him to follow her up the path. When she was certain they’d left the gang of bullies behind in the forest, she explained. 

“I heard some boys talking about how they were going to get you to go into the forest and then hurt you. That’s why I wanted to get you to come up to the castle with me.” 

“Oh,” Rubeus said, deliberately walking slowly to keep pace with Dorcas. “Well, I’m not afraid o’ a few classmates. They probably can’ do much ter me.” He gestured to himself by way of explanation. Dorcas supposed he was probably right. But she didn’t think that was a good enough reason to leave him on his own to be lured into a trap. 

“I know you’re not afraid. You were sorted into Gryffindor, after all,” Dorcas said, smiling up at Rubues. “If you don’t want to eat lunch in the Great Hall with everyone, I’ll go and nick us some sandwiches and we can eat out here on the lawn. How does that sound?” 

Rubeus looked thunderstruck. He stopped walking. 

Dorcas wondered what she’d said, if she’d offended him in some way. 

“Yeh want ter eat lunch with me?” he said, a hitch in his voice. 

Dorcas laughed at the incongruity of this sight. Rubeus was large and lumbering, but also clearly sensitive. 

“Of course I do,” she said. “Wait right here. I’ll be back with some food.” 

:::

23 December 1957 Watermead, Aylesbury

Trying not to let the garden gate squeak too loudly, Dorcas opened it slowly. She handed her house key to Ryann so that she could run ahead and unlock the front door. Cal trailed the party with Wren asleep in his arms, her blond head lolling against his shoulder.

They’d spent a lovely evening at the circus. As Dorcas and Cal sat watching the acrobats with the girls between them, their hands finding one another’s across the backs of the seats, Dorcas had a sense that everything was as it should be. She finally felt as if the business with Hepzibah Smith and Hokey the house-elf was in the past where it should be. Tom was gone for good. Dumbledore need not request anything else from her. She could move forward with her family and her career in peace. 

As one act cleared the rings to make way for another act, Dorcas was reminded briefly of another circus she’d attended when she was a girl. It was on one outing to Hogsmeade in the spring. Rubeus, being particularly fond of animals, could talk of nothing else but the variety he’d hoped to see there. It was a magical circus, unlike the Muggle one that Dorcas and her family attended now. 

There were some of the same types of spectacles and exploitations. But the creatures and performers were magical. This lent them an added air of mystery, Dorcas thought. She remembered how Rubeus’s demeanor changed completely when he’d been confronted with the reality of the magical creatures lives, instead of the fantasy he’d imagined. He practically tore the bars off of a Kappa’s cage before being thrown out of the circus altogether. 

Somewhere between that altercation at the Kappa display and his walk back to school, Rubeus had procured an Acromantula egg. 

Dorcas shook the remembrance from her mind. This was not a magical circus. Elephants did balancing acts, lions jumped through hoops. No one would be traveling home with a magical deadly spider’s egg in their pocket. 

She looked to Ryann, happy that her daughter was home. Even if it was just for two weeks at Christmastime, it made her family feel complete once more to have her children with her and Cal. She realized that in six short years, Wren would be at Hogwarts too. They would have an empty house. Dorcas felt funny about that notion. What would she and Cal be like together if they were not looking after children? Most couples have a small amount of time to acclimate to life together before a child comes. She and Cal had a mere three months alone together before Ryann was born. 

Dorcas thought back to the beginning of her marriage to Cal. There was no getting to know one another. Dorcas knew that the blame rested entirely with her. Cal had a seemingly endless supply of forbearance when it came to her, she knew. But, she also knew that she tested the limits of his love and patience every day of those first few months. 

Looking at her husband now, as he carried their youngest to her bed, she wondered if she was done with that chapter of her life yet? Did she see herself as the mother of two daughters, one of whom was already off to school with the second soon to follow? Or did she desire to have another baby in the house?

Cal, she knew, had always longed for a son. A small smile turned up the corners of her mouth as she thought about a child of hers that was the image of her husband. Would he be a little Gryffindor Quidditch player? Would he be a bookish Ravenclaw like his older sister? She daydreamed of the possibility. 

Why hadn’t they discussed another child? Two was never a number they’d agreed on. 

Cal tucked Wren into bed as Dorcas turned down Ryann’s covers and opened the enchanted  _ Thousand and One Nights _ that sprouted a tree with little singing goldfinches. 

Ryann came into the room she shared with Wren now that Theresa and her son were staying. In her nightdress and sock feet, she padded over to Cal and kissed his cheek. Then she crawled into bed. Dorcas sat beside her as Cal settled in beside Wren’s tiny sleeping form. 

“I’m so glad you’re home, my love,” Dorcas said, kissing the forehead of her oldest daughter. 

“Me too,” Ryann agreed. “I love school. But I’ve missed you two.” 

“We’ve missed you too, angel,” Cal whispered, stroking Wren’s curls.

“What’s been your favorite part about school so far?” Dorcas asked. In Ryann’s letters, her interests and likes and dislikes seemed to change moment to moment. 

“Quidditch matches,” Ryann answered instantly. 

Dorcas shared a look with Cal. He beamed with pride. 

“Daddy’s girl,” Cal laughed softly. 

“What about classes and teachers? Do you have favorites?” Dorcas steered the conversation into more comfortable territory. 

Ryann thought for a moment. “Professor McGonnagal. I like her and I like her class.”

Dorcas answered Cal’s curious look. “She’s Professor Dumbledore’s replacement. I met her when I was up at the school a few weeks back.” Turning to Ryann she said, “I like her too.” 

Dorcas and Cal bid their children goodnight and closed the bedroom door. 

Howdy Doody was restless in his cage in the dining room so she let him out through the kitchen window. The air was bracing as it gusted through the opening. Dorcas shuttered it tightly once again after the bird had flown. 

Closing the bedroom door behind her, she walked across to the closet to kick off her heels. She removed her earrings as she watched Cal unbutton his shirt. She wondered why she felt nervous to begin the conversation that she’d wanted to have with him. 

They shared nearly everything. It wasn’t possible that he would ignore her or brush her request to the side. But she was afraid of rejection. After more than a decade married she still didn’t feel as if she deserved him. That was really what lay at the center of her anxiety. That she never felt as if she truly deserved to be with him. That one day he would come to his senses and realize that he was entitled to better. 

He cast his shirt aside and caught her eye as she stared back biting her lip. 

“I can tell you’re having some internal debate, Clerey,” he said, patiently. “Am I allowed in on the secret?” 

She turned to her vanity and deposited the earrings in a jewelry case. She struggled with the clasp of her necklace for a moment, stalling in order to decide how to bring up the subject of another child. She felt his hands on the back of her neck, taking over with the clasp. His lips replaced the necklace, which he tossed atop the vanity dismissively. 

She felt her heart increase its beating as he tugged the zipper of her dress down, sliding it from her shoulders. 

“Let’s have another baby,” she blurted, turning around to meet his stunned eyes. 

“Is that what you want?” he asked, surprised. 

Dorcas felt her heart sink in sudden disappointment. This was what she was afraid of. Wren had been unplanned. They’d never discussed what they wanted. In the case of both of their daughters they’d simply reacted to what had happened and made adjustments to their lives accordingly. She’d almost convinced herself that Cal would be enthusiastic in his approval of another child. This was a different reaction. 

She self consciously slid her hands from his bare chest to cross her arms over her half-naked torso.

“I think so,” she said, but she sounded less confident than she’d meant to. “But it’s fine if you don’t.”

“No,” Cal said, hastily reaching for her to pull her in close. “I do. I really do. But have you thought about your work at the hospital and your practice?”

Dorcas hadn’t thought about either one. “No,” she answered honestly. “But I still want another baby.” 

Cal didn’t say anything to that. He was distant for a moment, thinking. Dorcas didn’t have to ask what it was that occupied his thoughts. He was worried. If Dorcas was truthful with herself, there was a little hesitation in the back of her own mind as well. Dorcas had challenges with carrying and delivering both of her daughters. It felt a little like tempting fate to try for a third child. 

“Cal, please,” Dorcas pleaded. 

Her husband looked for a moment like he wanted to argue. Then Cal smiled. “Well, we’re not going to get a baby by standing here and talking about it,” he said. Then he kissed her. The kiss was deep and passionate. Dorcas’s knees trembled, nearly buckled. It was fortunate then that he was pulling her toward the bed because she felt as if she could no longer support her own weight. 

:::

7 September 1940 Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas had used Cherry as bait. It was a shameless ploy, really. She’d tried for a week to lure Jonas into the library to study. Every time she’d gotten within spitting distance of the library’s doors with Jonas, he’d made some excuse as to why he didn’t have the time to spend with Dorcas pouring over Charms or Transfiguration notes. 

On Friday they’d had a free period between Charms and dinner. Dorcas was determined not to waste this valuable study break. She’d left Charms with Jonas, casting about for a plan to get him to come with her and knock out a bit of homework. She’d considered threats or a guilt trip. But then her redhead friend came up to her chattering about plans she’d had to go flying with Darren after Gryffindor were done with Quidditch practice. 

Flying. That was it!

“Cherry,” Dorcas interrupted. “Have you met my cousin Jonas?” 

“Hi Jonas,” Cherry said with a smile and a wave. “We have Herbology together.” 

“Jonas shared something with me that I think you’ll find very interesting,” Dorcas said, heading down the corridor and subtly turning in the direction of the library. 

Cherry’s eyebrows raised with interest. 

Dorcas looked to Jonas, encouraging him to take over the conversation. “About what you want to do when you leave school?” She prompted him with a nudge of her elbow. 

Jonas seemed to have forgotten that he was capable of speech. Dorcas took over with an impatient huff. 

“He is interested in becoming a pilot.” 

Dorcas didn’t have to say anything more. 

Cherry cut in front of her, taking Jonas’s arm and leading him forward while rhapsodizing the invention of the plane. 

Dorcas walked behind like a third wheel wondering if her plan had been too effective. Cherry, after all, was less inclined to step through the library doors than Jonas was. 

“Wilver and Orbur White were the American chaps whose tinkering made the thing fly,” she said with an excited giggle. 

Jonas looked entranced and terrified at the same time. 

Dorcas hastened to one side or another to steer the pair in the direction she chose like a prize sheepdog.

“And radar,” Jonas explained in answer to a question that Dorcas hadn’t heard. “Is how the pilots can tell when enemy aircraft are approaching. It works somewhat like a Trace Detection Charm, only it uses radio waves.” 

At Cherry’s confused pout, Jonas clarified. “Waves of vibration that are undetectable without equipment.” 

Rather pleased with herself, but also feeling a little like a puppet master, Dorcas reminded Cherry that someone was waiting for her on the Quidditch pitch. 

Cherry scanned the library, looking unsure of how she’d gotten there and fluffed her curls a little nervously. “My! But I can get carried away with the chatter sometimes.” 

Jonas smiled faintly as she waved goodbye and rushed out of the library. He realized that he was good and trapped. “That was diabolical, Dorcas.” 

“Sit,” she answered cheerily. “Let’s work on Professor Maynard’s essay that’s due on Monday.” 

:::

After an hour with Jonas, Dorcas was pleased with the work he’d produced on Summoning Charms. His conclusion was weak, but overall the effort should earn him good marks. 

“This is a job well done, Jonas,” she was saying. 

He beamed at her praise. 

She was about to suggest they go over her Transfiguration notes, but wondered if that would be pushing her luck. Maybe she should end on a high note. 

“Hey, Birdie,” Tom said, taking his usual study spot beside Dorcas. 

At her right elbow, Jonas began to hurriedly pack his belongings, taking the essay back from Dorcas. 

“Thank Mab!” he said. “A distraction.” He threw his bag over his arm and tossed a goodbye over his shoulder at Dorcas as he left. 

“Hi, Tom,” Dorcas said, deflating a little as her quarry left. And she’d been so clever getting him there in the first place. 

She pulled out Harriet Finnigan’s letter as a break from homework. She scanned it once more. The edges were starting to curl from the constant folding and unfolding. She hadn’t replied. 

“What’s that?” Tom said, nodding to the paper she held. 

“A letter from the lady who wrote the book about Wingate Institution,” Dorcas said, glumly. 

“Bad news?” Tom asked. 

Dorcas stared at her words on the page.  _ I wonder if you are free to meet in person?  _

“Well,” Dorcas said. “A little. She wants to say more about the hospital but doesn’t want to say it in writing. She wants to meet.” 

“So, are you going to go?” 

“She wants to meet in London,” Dorcas added. 

Tom raised his eyebrows as if it didn’t change the context of his question. 

“I’m here. That’s far away from London, Tom.” 

He nodded. “Well, spotted. Nothing gets past you, Birdie.” 

She smiled humorlessly. 

“Write her back and tell her you’ll meet her next Saturday.” Tom made it sound so simple. 

“What?” she asked, furrowing her brow. She didn’t like the cavalier tone he was using. He may have no connection to or interest in the hospital that destroyed her uncle’s life. But it was not a joke to her. 

“You can get to London and meet her. I will take you there myself,” Tom said, smiling reassuringly. 

Dorcas blinked and waited for more of a plan. 

“Are you going to explain yourself?” Dorcas asked impatiently. 

“No,” Tom said, turning to his homework. “Write your letter, Birdie, and leave the rest to me.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

15 September 1940 Third Floor Charms Corridor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dorcas anxiously awaited Saturday. She became absolutely fidgety when she received a reply from Harriet Finnigan confirming their meeting at one o’clock Saturday afternoon. She’d almost blundered when Cal saw her in the courtyard scanning the letter. She was so edgy with anticipation and also restive in the fact that she didn’t know what Tom’s plan had been, or even if it was possible for her to get to London. 

Cal asked her what she was reading. As he’d been the one to help her initially seek out information on Wingate Institution, even obtaining Ms. Finnigan’s address, she wanted to tell him about her upcoming meeting with the author. But she stopped short when she realized that this would mean explaining how she meant to get to the meeting. Even if she knew how she would travel to London, she felt certain that Cal would disapprove of a scheme to leave the school without permission. 

So, she confided in no one except Tom. 

Clutching Harriet’s response and the original letter inside the Wingate book in her hand she came to the classroom at the very end of the corridor. Dorcas peeked into the darkened room, unsure if she was in the right place. How could an abandoned classroom at the end of an empty corridor be part of the plan to sneak away to London? Was there another secret passage into Hogsmeade from here? 

She looked back down the corridor she’d just traversed. She was alone. 

About to turn back, Dorcas stopped when she heard Tom’s voice from within her own mind. 

“Birdie, stop hovering in the doorway. Someone will see you.” 

She needed no further prompting, she stepped into the classroom and saw Tom standing in a corner next to a very large and ornate cabinet. 

“So, now are you going to let me in on the plan? How are we going to get to London?” 

Tom adopted that casual air that infuriated Dorcas. It was a nonchalance that suggested that everyone else had to work twice as hard to be a fraction as brilliant as he was. 

“This is the plan,” he said, gesturing to the cabinet. 

Dorcas studied it, stepping close and placing a hand against the polished wood. 

“How does it work?” Dorcas asked. She knew not to doubt any object in Hogwarts that appeared innocuous. If Tom said it would get them to London, it probably would. 

“It’s got a twin in a shop in London. All we need to do is step into it,” he explained while twisting the handle and opening the cabinet. 

Dorcas peered inside and then looked back at Tom. 

“Is it safe?” 

Tom looked affronted. “Birdie, would I put you in danger?” 

Dorcas knew her face looked skeptical. Tom laughed. 

“Let’s go before someone catches us in here. Do you have the address?” he asked, taking her arm and helping her to climb into the cabinet. 

“Yes,” Dorcas said, pulling the book with the letters out of her pocket to show him. 

Tom stepped into the cabinet, filling the remaining space and closed the door carefully. 

The sensation of being pulled backwards quickly was jarring and unexpected. Dorcas reflexively reached out and found Tom’s arm. She grasped it tightly in both of her hands, afraid that if she let go, they would be separated. 

She clenched her teeth, fearing that if she opened her mouth she would scream. When the effort to keep a cry of terror from escaping her became almost too much to maintain, the falling backwards sensation stopped. 

A breath next to Dorcas’s ear reassured her that she hadn’t lost Tom. As if sensing that her nerves needed soothing, his hand found hers squeezing his arm and he patted it. 

“Stay quiet,” he instructed, so close to her that she felt his lips brush her ear. 

She nodded. 

They stood in the cabinet for a moment longer, listening to the sounds beyond the door. Tom cracked the cabinet open only a miniscule amount. 

She strained her ears for sounds. She couldn’t hear much, just one set of footsteps that shuffled a little when their owner walked. They sounded as if they were moving away from the spot where Dorcas and Tom were concealed. 

Dorcas looked to Tom. She couldn’t see much of him in the darkness of the enclosed space. But she could see a sliver of light cut down his face as he checked the space beyond. 

Tom announced the way was clear for their exit with a nod of his head. He pried Dorcas’s fingers from her vice grip on his arm and held them in his hand. Dorcas recalled a memory of the last time he’d held onto her like that. It was in the Underground as they waited for the air raid sirens to cease their wailing. She remembered the sensation of losing a limb when he’d released her hand and walked away from her. 

She allowed herself a moment to close her eyes and appreciate the feeling of being whole again with her hand grasping his. 

Her eyes snapped open when Tom yanked her out of the cabinet behind him and out of the shop door. She blinked and tried to gain her bearings. Looking behind her at the shop, she surveyed the eeriest assortment of items for sale. 

There was a cape with bloodstains on a mannequin, a purple tophat resting where the head should be. Five skulls were arranged on a display table in a pyramid. And several masks glared down at her from the walls. 

“Where are we?” Dorcas asked, drawing closer to Tom instinctively. 

“Knockturn Alley,” he answered, pulling her along the pavement. 

They rounded a corner and the view became a little more familiar. As they stepped into a sunny and more broad avenue, she recognized many of the shops where she’d purchased school supplies the previous year. They were in Diagon Alley. 

“Tom,” Dorcas breathed, stunned by the journey they’d just made, hardly daring to believe it had happened. “That was brilliant.” 

He smiled and winked, squeezing her hand slightly in silent reply. They kept walking until they reached The Leaky Cauldron. Dorcas knew that Muggle London lay just beyond the pub. 

“From here, it’s Muggle means to get to your meeting,” Tom explained. He led her out of the pub and into the Underground station across Charing Cross. 

Tom paid their fair and they easily blended into the throng of people on the platform hurrying to all sorts of city destinations. Stepping into a tube car with a Euston Square stop, they found seats near the back. Dorcas felt conspicuous. She pulled on the plait that hung down her left shoulder and stared at the people in the car with them. She pulled out the book and the letters for something to do. Placing the book in her lap, she opened the latest letter from Harriet. 

“What if we’re recognized?” As she whispered this to Tom, one middle aged man looked directly at her. She caught his eye but quickly looked away. When she returned her gaze to him he was still looking at her. 

“Stop looking like a scared little girl and people will quit staring,” he whispered back. He took her book and began casually flipping through it to demonstrate. 

Dorcas was nettled. “I’m not a little girl,” she argued. “I just had a birthday on Wednesday.” As if that made her point for her.

“Well, happy birthday,” Tom returned in whispered argument. “Stare at the ground if you can’t stop looking so panicked.” 

Dorcas did look at her own feet for the rest of the tube trip. She wished that she could have Tom’s confidence. She supposed it came with years of traveling around the city on his own, blending in, affecting that air of belonging in places that he didn’t. 

They sat in silence for four stops. Tom reading, Dorcas studying her shoes. The staring man got off and she felt she could breathe a little easier. 

“This is us, Birdie,” Tom said finally, closing the book and tucking it into his jacket pocket. He took Dorcas’s hand again and joined a cue of passengers waiting to disembark. 

On street level again, Dorcas felt her anticipation at meeting Ms. Finnigan replace her fear of being caught. They walked a few blocks to Warren Street and came to stand before a row of narrow townhouses. They looked old and a little shabby, but nicer than the buildings in Dorcas’s own neighborhood. This was definitely not the East End. 

She checked the address on the envelope that she took from her pocket. 

“Have a good meeting, Birdie,” Tom said, releasing her hand. Her nerves were returning. 

“You’re not coming with me?” she asked. She remembered distinctly arguing that she was not a little girl and inwardly cringed that she sounded like one now. 

“No,” Tom said, scuffing the heel of his shoe along the pavement. “I’ve got things to do as well. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.” 

Dorcas nodded and turned to the red door of Harriet Finnigan’s residence. She knocked and took a deep breath. 

:::

Dorcas sat on a green and white chintz couch with a teacup and saucer perched on her knees. As she surveyed the home of Harriet Finnigan she surmised that the woman must live an interesting life. 

Every available surface of the tiny sitting room had books piled on books. There was a desk in one corner with a typewriter and stacks of files. Dorcas guessed this was where she must have written the Wingate book. 

Pictures lined the walls. The closest photographs that Dorcas could see all looked to have been taken in exotic places. One picture had her waving in front of the massive mudbrick Djenne Mosque in Mali with two men and a woman. Another photograph was below that with Harriet and the players of a Quidditch team, all holding broomsticks and wearing green robes, atop a great stone wall–The Great Wall, she guessed. The final photograph that Dorcas could view from where she sat was of Harriet alone in front of the Brandenburg Gate. 

“I am surprised, I must confess,” Harriet said, pouring herself a cup of tea. “I didn’t expect you to be quite so young.” 

Dorcas didn’t know how to respond to this observation and so sipped her tea instead. 

“I’ve read your book several times,” Dorcas finally said, eager to steer the conversation toward Wingate. 

“You may be the only one,” Harriet said with a smile. “Where did you come across it, again?” 

“A little bookstore on the high street in Hogsmeade,” Dorcas answered. “My mother told me that is where my uncle spent about a year and so I’d started researching it.” 

Harriet nodded, taking in the information and sipping her tea. She was about the same age as Dorcas’s mother, she guessed, with auburn hair that was pinned up with tortoiseshell combs. She wore gray trousers and a green blouse with a bow at the neck. She had sharp eyes that Dorcas imagined were like a hawk’s. She suspected that, as a journalist, she ought to be very good at observing the details of her surroundings. 

“I’m curious about your uncle,” Harriet said, lifting her cup to her lips again. “I may have met him while I was investigating the hospital. What is his name?” 

“Mortimer Rackharrow. Morty,” Dorcas said. 

“Rackharrow?” Harriet repeated, her eyebrows raised slightly. 

Dorcas was not at all surprised that she knew the name. Her uncle Lysander was on the boards of St. Mungo’s and Hogwarts and held a hereditary seat in the Wizengamot. 

“Yes,” Dorcas confirmed. 

“So are you Lysander’s daughter? Or Mary-Ellen’s?” 

Dorcas was surprised that her mother’s name would come up. She did not think of her mother as attached to the Rackharrow name or of the pureblood circles of the Wizarding community. She’d been successfully detached from that life for as long as Dorcas had been alive. 

‘Mary-Ellen’s,” Dorcas replied. “Do you know my mother?” 

Harriet nodded. “I went to school with your mother and father.” 

Dorcas received a secondary shock. Harriet Finnigan knew her mother and father at school. She was tempted to ask more, but remembered that she didn’t have too long to linger here. She and Tom would need to get back to Hogwarts before they were missed. 

“I was hoping you could tell me a little of what they did to the patients at Wingate,” Dorcas redirected. 

Harriet nodded and set her teacup down. Dorcas followed her. 

“Have you heard of the Unforgivable Curses?” Harriet asked. 

Dorcas nodded and shifted to the edge of her seat. “They’re in my Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook,” she responded. 

“Right you are,” Harriet smiled encouragingly. “You know that they work by taking over the nervous system, the brain?” 

“Yes,” Dorcas answered. “The Imperius Curse allows the caster to rewire the brain’s impulses, giving control of the body over. The Cruciatus Curse is a variation on the Imperius. It tricks the brain to signal the body’s nerve endings and create unyielding pain. The Killing Curse shuts down all of the brain’s impulses completely.” Dorcas thought about the book she’d read in Blackpool’s library over the summer about Urquhart Rackharrow, the founder of the curses. But she decided to leave him out of her recitation. 

Dorcas thought about these curses and shuddered to think these were the incantations that the hospital had touted as “cures”. 

“How did the hospital use the spells?” Dorcas’s eyebrows creased with confusion. 

“There were healers who had become convinced that a Squib child could be terrified into exhibiting magic. They just needed to have the proper motivation in order to access the innate magic inside of them,” Harriet explained. 

“How could the curses help?” 

“Imagine,” Harriet began, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear as she reached for a shoebox full of photographs. “A healer using the Imperius Curse to control your body as they forced you to hold your own head under water, threatening to drown you unless you threw them off with magic. Or having the Cruciatus Curse used on you or a friend until you could defend yourself with a spell.” 

Dorcas’s eyes were wide with horror. 

“The Unforgivable Curses are part of a group of spells known as Compulsory Operational Curses,” Harriet continued. “They can damage the nervous system. They have caused hundreds of people to live lives like your Uncle Morty lives.”

Dorcas remembered her mother saying that repeated use of these kinds of spells was like gouging grooves into a record. The original melodies recorded there were permanently damaged as a result. 

Dorcas swallowed around a lump that had formed in her throat. 

“Why did the hospital burn down in 1926?” Dorcas asked in a hoarse whisper. 

Harriet blanched and flipped through some of the photographs that she’d pulled from the box. She handed Dorcas the photo that was published in the book. The one where Wingate was engulfed in flames. 

“Some people found out about how Wingate was treating its patients. Some people didn’t care what became of their children in that place, I suppose. But the Ministry had coerced some parents to send their Squib children. The Magical Welfare Office sent letters to families of Squib children and mandated that they send them there for treatment.” She looked down at some of the other photos she held. “I wrote a piece that was published independently and it gained some attention from concerned parents. It also gained attention from the Ministry.” 

She handed Dorcas some of the photos she held. Dorcas looked at each one in turn. One was the photo in the book of the staff of healers and nurses standing in front of the hospital waving. Three others were pictures that had not been published. They were pictures of angry protesters with signs, clearly yelling while they marched on the lawn, the hospital looming in the background. 

“One of the protests turned violent, the healers became nervous that the hospital would be overrun and so they started burning patient files.” She looked down at her hands, clearly guilty for her part in the disaster. “The fire got out of control. Seven healers and four children died.” 

Dorcas gasped. 

She looked down at the hospital burning on the sepia colored photo paper laying on the coffee table in front of her. 

“The Ministry does not want their involvement in the hospital to be analyzed too closely,” Harriet said finally. “That’s why my book is lacking in some vital details.” 

Dorcas understood. The Ministry forced children into the hospital for treatment that turned out to be torture becuase it did not want nonmagical members polluting the gene pool. 

“Not unlike Hitler’s plans for people who are different,” Dorcas said as she thought out loud. 

Harriet nodded in agreement. “He’ll be stopped.” She fixed Dorcas with a stern and determined look. 

“How can you be sure?” Dorcas asked. Maybe at one time she’d been optimistic about Britain standing up to Germany. But that was before France fell and the army had retreated from the continent. “The Muggle army left the continent at Dunkirk. The magical people don’t want anything to do with the war. And now it’s on our doorstep.” 

“Dunkirk was not a retreat,” Harriet objected. “It was a regrouping. And as for the magical people, why do you think the waters were so calm during the evacuation? Where do you think the fog rolled in from? Do you think that those weather conditions just appeared out of nowhere?” 

Dorcas didn’t know how to respond to that. She desperately wanted to believe that the British Wizarding community was not sitting idly by while the continent was overrun by fascist armies. 

“I know,” Harriet continued, prompted by Dorcas’s stunned silence. “I was there. I reported on it. I’m going back in a couple of weeks.” 

“Is it really dangerous? Reporting from the continent?” Dorcas admired Harriet and was inspired by her work. 

“It can be,” Harriet conceded. “But I’m with a whole network of magical and Muggle professionals who know what they’re doing.” 

“Thank you for sharing these with me,” Dorcas said, handing the photos back to Harriet. “I hope that you have a successful trip, Ms. Finnigan.”

She stood and held her hand out to Harriet. 

Harriet stood too and took Dorcas’s hand. “Please, call me Hattie. I’m so glad that I got to meet you. You’re equal parts Mary-Ellen and Corbin, I can see it.” 

Dorcas brightened. She’d never been compared to her father. She didn’t know many people who had known him. 

“Please write to me when you return,” Dorcas added as Hattie walked her to the door. 

“I will, indeed,” Hattie answered. “I’ll tell you all about my trip.” 

:::

25 January 1958 Janus Thickey Ward for Long-Term Spell Damage, Saint Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

Dorcas tried to shake off the funny feeling she had. The smell of disinfectant was making her head foggy. She looked at the orderly directing a mop to clean the floors just beyond the doors of the Long-Term Spell Damage Ward. She supposed the witch was just doing her job, but Dorcas was impatient for her to move along down the hall. If the smell was bothering her, she reasoned, then it was probably bothering the patients more. 

She swiped a hand across her forehead, which felt clammy. It was mid-January and there was snow on the ground. She wondered at the feeling of being overheated. It could be influenza. In that case, she ought to take precautions around her patients. She removed a medical mask from the pocket of her lime green robes and tied it around her face, covering her nose and mouth. 

She came to the bedside of Gus Hawkins and reviewed his chart. 

“How are you feeling today, Mr. Hawkins?” she asked. 

He looked a little hollow around the eyes like he’d had his sleep interrupted. 

He shrugged. “Not bad.” 

“Have you slept at all?” Dorcas looked over her colleague’s notes. Healer Crawford had written that the patient was having bad dreams for the past three nights. 

“Very little,” he said, playing with the corner of the sheet on his bed. 

“Healer Crawford mentioned the dreams you’ve been having. Do you want to tell me about them?” 

Gus looked down at his hands as he fidgeted. He shook his head. 

“Would you like to take a walk?” 

At this, Gus brightened and nodded. Dorcas helped him out of bed and bent to place his slippers on his feet. She stood a little too quickly and felt lightheaded for a moment. She leaned with her hand on the bed beside Gus to steady herself. 

“Are you feeling alright, Healer Meadowes?” Gus asked. 

“Yes,” Dorcas said, embarrassed. “It’s probably just a touch of the flu.” 

“You need some Pepperup Potion,” Gus said. 

Dorcas smiled under her mask. The patient prescribing the doctor a healing tonic. “That’s very good advice, Mr. Hawkins. I’ll take some as soon as we finish our walk.”

Gus was walking with better balance. He did not need Dorcas’s support to get to the tea shop at all. He was also stumbling over his words far less often than he had last week. 

“Did you have any visitors this week?” Dorcas prompted. 

“Just Elizabeth,” Gus answered, holding the door to the shop open for Dorcas. 

Dorcas knew that Gus’s wife Elizabeth visited most days. 

“She told me some stories about when we were young. I remembered all of the people she talked about,” Gus looked at her and smiled, proud of his progress. 

He had every right to be proud. He was in a gloomy place for a couple of months because his progress had stagnated for a little while. But some watershed moment had triggered a flurry of memory recovery in the last week or so. 

They sat at a table in the corner and ordered. 

“Gus,” Dorcas ventured, when the waitress had dropped off the tea. “I wonder if you could tell me about the dreams you’re having. Only, I think they might be more than dreams. I think they might be memories.”

Gus nodded and blew on his tea before taking a sip. 

“I dream about being on my rounds at the Ministry and a pair of glowing eyes in an alleyway. There was a dead body. And then I can’t remember anything after that,” Gus’s hand on his teacup shook. He noticed the way the cup clattered against the saucer and placed his hands in his lap under the table in order to conceal the tremor. 

Dorcas paused a moment in order to give Gus time to compose himself. 

“Is it always the same images? You on your rounds, the glowing eyes, the dead body, and then nothing?” 

“Yes, it’s always the same,” Gus answered in a strained whisper. 

Dorcas knew from his file and from the numerous conversations that she had with Gus that he was a night watchman at the Ministry of Magic. She knew that he’d been stunned by his own Stunning Spell as it backfired from his damaged wand. She knew that he was found at the scene of a murder outside of the Ministry. He had been unresponsive for several minutes and was pronounced dead at the scene. 

Dorcas walked with Gus back to the Long-Term Spell Damage Ward. When she’d seen him safely into his bed once more and ordered a Sleeping Draught for him, she stopped to make a note in his file. 

_ Memory therapy one week from today _ . It was little more than a hunch, but Dorcas suspected that the recurring nightmare he was having was connected to his accident back in early October. 

She closed the file and turned to leave the ward for her office. Her fingertips went numb for a moment and the file slipped from her hands onto the floor. Dorcas cursed under her breath and became annoyed at this peculiar day she’d been having. Stooping to pick up the papers scattered there, her vision became black with little pinpricks of silver light. The last thing she remembered was losing her balance and falling. 

:::

When Dorcas opened her eyes, she expected to be on the floor of the Long-Term Spell Damage Ward. It only seemed like she’d blanked for a moment. But when she opened her eyes, she realized she was in a bed in an entirely different part of the hospital. 

Dorcas couldn’t identify what floor she was on or what ward she was in. She knew it wasn’t the Janus Thickey Ward any longer because the din of patients babbling to themselves was absent here. This place, wherever here may be, was quieter. 

She looked around. Screens blocked her view of the rest of the floor. She could only see her bed. Peering under the sheet that covered her, she saw that her hospital robes and wool suit had been removed. A hospital gown replaced them. Dorcas shook her head. This was an overreaction to her lightheadedness and loss of balance earlier. Leave it to healers to jump to the most dramatic conclusions. 

She threw the sheet off of her feet, determined to find the nearest nurse to bring her clothes. She knew she probably shouldn’t finish her shift, but she could have a lie down at home and not have to take up a hospital bed. 

“I knew you would try to escape. Back in bed, Clerey,” Cal ordered, coming around the screen and catching her escape before her feet hit the floor. 

“I’m fine, Cal. This fuss is all unnecessary,” Dorcas said impatiently, ignoring him. 

“Doctors really do make the worst patients.” He tossed her file on the bed and pulled the covers back, tucking her in insistently. 

Dorcas grabbed the file from the foot of the bed and flipped through it. “It’s just the flu.”

Her husband furrowed his brow. “I hope you’re better at reading patient charts than that, Dr. Meadowes,” he chided. 

Dorcas blinked up at him in confusion. 

“Congratulations! We’re having a baby,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed. His voice sounded joyful, but his expression belied anxiety. 

She looked at the chart again and read the results for herself. 

She felt a sensation of floating as if her chest was filled with helium and she could rise straight up into the air. 

“We’re having a baby!” Her joy fully translated in her expression as she threw the chart to the foot of the bed again and reached for Cal. She kissed him enthusiastically, tossing caution aside. This was not professional behavior, but that was what the screen was there for. 

Cal took her hands, untangling her fingers from behind his neck and folded them up in his own, kissing her knuckles before becoming a serious medical professional once more. 

“What were you doing before you fainted?”

Dorcas shrugged, impatient with the questioning already. She wanted to think about nurseries and names instead. 

“I was with a patient. We went for a walk, had tea, talked.” 

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? You said you thought it was the flu?”

Dorcas pushed the many baby-related thoughts from her mind for now and concentrated on the moments before she passed out in the middle of the ward. 

“I felt clammy and a bit warm, I remember that the floor cleaner that was used on the floor bothered me; made me feel ill.” She paused. She’d just tucked Gus back into bed. She was writing in his patient file. “My fingertips lost feeling and I dropped my patient’s file.”

Cal examined her hands as they rested in his. He removed his wand from his pocket and pricked her index finger. “Can you feel that?” 

“Yes,” Dorcas answered, pulling her hand back a little in reflex. 

“But you couldn’t grasp the papers?” 

Dorcas thought about the sensation of losing control of her fingers for a moment. “No. And when I bent to pick the papers up, I saw stars and woke up here.” 

“I think we should do more tests, Dorcas,” Cal said, his face a cautious mask. “Rule out anything vascular or neurological.”

Dorcas shook her head. “I’m perfectly fine, Cal. Don’t make a fuss. This happened once or twice before with Ryann and with Wren.” 

“Yes,” Cal argued. “I remember perfectly. But you never complained about numbness in your extremities before.” 

“Just my fingers. It was really nothing.” 

Cal seemed to want to force the issue. But as he knew his wife too well to argue, he compromised. “I won’t order any tests if you agree to come home with me now and get right into bed.” 

Dorcas chewed on her lip. “Cal, I have a shift to finish and–” 

Cal cut her off succinctly. “Absolutely not. You go home now and rest, or I run tests and keep you here overnight.” 

Dorcas’s eyes grew wide at his ultimatum. 

“Fine,” she said, defeated. But, she reminded herself, she was going to have another baby. She smiled and lay back on her pillows. 

“I’ll get your clothes. Don’t move,” Cal said sternly, standing and disappearing behind the screen. 

:::

15 September 1940 Warren Street, London

Dorcas saw Tom sitting on a bench across the street from Hattie’s townhouse. She crossed the street as he stood and handed her a folded newspaper. 

“Happy Birthday,” he said.

“What’s this?” Dorcas asked, confused. 

“Read it. Page nine,” he said simply. He put his hands in his pockets and waited for her to flip to the right page. 

Dorcas noticed that the paper was from 1926. She found page nine. The very same picture of the Wingate Institution going up in flames greeted her in newsprint. The only difference between this photograph and the original she’d just seen in Hattie’s sitting room was that the flames and the people were stationary here on the newspaper page. This was a Muggle newspaper. 

“Where did you find this?” Dorcas asked in astonishment. She gaped at Tom. 

“I went to the library,” Tom answered. He pulled Dorcas’s copy of Hattie’s book from his jacket pocket. “I read that it was disguised as a Muggle school. I figured someone would have reported on the fire.” 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to take these,” Dorcas said dubiously. 

Tom shrugged. 

“Take a look at the caption,” he prompted. 

Dorcas looked closer. “It’s in Birmingham.” 

“Yes,” Tom confirmed. “So what did you find out?” 

Dorcas told him about Hattie and the fascinating life she led. She told him about the Unforgivable Curses, the protests, and the circumstances of the fire.” 

“Seems like a productive trip,” he said, nodding. 

They descended into the Underground and boarded a tube car back to Charing Cross. 

Dorcas scanned the paper avidly as they rode. 

“I’ve missed this, Birdie,” Tom said suddenly. 

“Missed what?” Dorcas asked, not taking her eyes off of the paper. 

Tom placed a hand over hers and lowered the paper in order to look at her. Dorcas stared back questioningly. 

“I’ve missed spending time with you. I mean spending time with you outside of the library studying,” he continued, talking fast. 

“You mean, spending time alone sneaking about breaking rules?” Dorcas clarified. 

“Yes,” Tom said. “I wish it could be like last year before your accident. I know you’re afraid that something will happen again. But look,” he gestured around at the tube car thundering through tunnels under the city. “I’ve gotten you all the way to London without a scratch on you.” 

“But what’s the point? You only asked me to go around with you so that I could teach you what I can do. But I couldn’t teach you.” 

“That’s not true. Besides, I can sometimes pick up what people are thinking now and then.” 

Now Dorcas was truly intrigued. “You didn’t tell me you’d figured it out!” 

“I first heard someone in the Underground that one day we were down there for the air raid drill,” he explained. 

“That’s incredible, Tom!”

“Yeah, but I need a lot of practice.” He hurried on. “But that’s not why I miss you, Birdie. I just want to be with my friend. You’re really the only one I’ve got.” 

Dorcas felt a stirring of compassion for him. She hadn’t realized how alone he’d been. She stared at him. He returned her stare. There was a pleading in his look that compelled Dorcas. She really didn’t know anyone else who could move her emotions like he could. 

“Okay,” she conceded. 

Tom’s expression changed to one of relief. How would he have reacted if she’d said she couldn’t resume their capering about the school at night? 

“Will you meet me tonight?” he asked eagerly. 

It was Saturday and the start of term. Dorcas had finished all of her homework and had no fixed plans for tomorrow. She could manage another nighttime jaunt with Tom. 

She realized that she missed Tom and their clandestine meetings just as much as he had. “Peter and Wendy, off on another adventure!”

A handsome smile lighted Tom’s features. “Brilliant!” 

:::

Dorcas peered through the dirty shop window, past the bloody cloak. She and Tom were waiting for the right moment to enter Borgin and Burkes. Tom explained that getting back through the cabinet would be tricky because one of the two store owners were always watching their customers for thievery. 

“Why would anyone want to steal this junk?” Dorcas asked, looking at the glass eye on display. 

“Well, most of it probably  _ is _ junk. But that Vanishing Cabinet is pretty rare. There’s a few other things in there that someone might want to nick.” Tom turned to her. “Birdie, you go in first and make your way to the cabinet. Be casual. You’re just browsing. Then I’ll come in and distract him,” he jerked his head in the direction of the store attendant. “You get in the cabinet and go back to Hogwarts. Got it?” 

Dorcas shook her head. “What will you do? I don’t want to go back alone. What if I get lost?” 

Tom placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “You can’t get lost. The cabinets are linked. You can only go to Hogwarts from here. I’ll be right behind you.” 

“Okay,” Dorcas said, feeling apprehensive. She pushed the door open and a bell tinkled to announce her entrance. She immediately turned left and began to peruse a display of necklaces that a small placard claimed had curses on them. 

There was a jade and silver pendant on a delicate chain, a gold locket with an ornate S carved into it, and a black onyx choker. 

She moved on, surveying a music box with an organ grinder’s monkey on it. She wondered what sort of nefarious magic was concealed in it. The monkey’s black beaded eyes stared at her. 

Dorcas heard the bell tinkle but didn’t look up. She listened to Tom talking to the man behind the case of signet rings. 

She walked closer to the cabinet and glanced over her shoulder. Tom pointed to a ring under the glass and asked questions that Dorcas couldn’t hear. The shopkeeper bent to retrieve the ring he was pointing to. Tom quickly looked in her direction and nodded. 

She stepped into the cabinet and closed the door. She was instantly pulled backwards. Her teeth chattered as she was buffeted by wind. The darkness was all-consuming. 

Then she was on her own feet again and standing once more in the black space. She cracked the cabinet’s door to make sure that the classroom was empty before she stepped out. Her legs buckled as she stepped into the classroom and came down hard on her knees. 

Dorcas stood quickly and rushed to close the cabinet immediately. She couldn’t take her eyes off of the handle, she willed it to twist open and reveal Tom inside. She waited. The cabinet’s handle didn’t move. She wondered if she should go back and help him, or leave the classroom before she was spotted. 

The cabinet opened at last and Tom stepped out. Dorcas hadn’t realized that she’d been holding her breath. 

:::

15-16 September 1940 Secret Room, Seventh Floor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Tom’s breaths became shallow and even, the rise and fall of his chest beneath Dorcas’s cheek became a pleasant rhythm; his arm wrapped around her a reassuring weight. 

Dorcas held  _ A Thousand and One Nights  _ open and read aloud. They were in Tom’s hidden den of cast off furnishings in the secret room he’d first shown her last Christmas. After three stories, she closed the book. 

She wondered something and spoke it aloud. 

“Tom?”

She couldn’t see his face, but she could sense that he was smiling. 

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’d heard someone’s thoughts during the summer?” 

There was silence. 

“It was hardly the time to discuss such a thing while we were huddled below the city streets braced for a bombing,” he said. 

“I know,” Dorcas replied. “But we wrote to each other over the summer.” 

“Yes, but I’m not going to put something like that in a letter. I swore to you that I would keep your secret. Anyone can open a letter and read it.” 

Dorcas agreed with the logic of it. She wondered at the paranoia of assuming that every letter you write will be seen by eyes other than that of the intended reader. But, she supposed, she would probably also develop traits like paranoia and suspicion if she grew up in an orphanage like Tom had. 

“I’m not keeping secrets from you, Birdie. I told you at the first opportunity. And besides, it was just one time and so quick that I thought I’d imagined it.”

Dorcas reached over Tom and placed the book next to the paper Tom had swiped from the library in London. She’d read the story of the fire at the school in Birmingham at least three times that afternoon. 

She drew her hand back from the paper and rested it on Tom’s torso, fiddling with a button on his shirt. 

“What did you hear?” 

“That man that was pacing back and forth at the foot of the stairs,” he described. His fingers at her shoulder played with the end of her plait. 

Dorcas nodded, prompting him to go on. She remembered him because he looked a little too well dressed for the area of town he was in. 

“He was praying,” Tom said. “He was praying that–” then he stopped and laughed a little. “I shouldn’t finish it. It would scandalize you.” 

Now Dorcas was intrigued. “You have to finish, now that you’ve started it!”

“Okay,” Tom said, “He was making a bargain with God that he’d stop visiting his favorite girl in the East End and go home to his wife if God would spare him.” 

“Oh,” Dorcas blushed, but was thankful that Tom could only see the top of her head from where he lay. 

She thought back to that day they’d met at the record store. She could picture the man in the Underground clearly. She usually didn’t have to work hard to hear thoughts if people were projecting them. 

“I wonder why I didn’t hear him.” 

She felt Tom shrug the arm that was wrapped around her. 

“You were trying to calm your uncle down. You started singing.” 

She nodded as she remembered the scene in her mind. That was one of the most terrifying moments she could recall in her life. She shuddered involuntarily as she looked back on the memory. 

“Are you cold, Birdie?” Tom asked, pulling a blanket over her before she could respond. 

They spent a while in languorous silence before Tom’s rhythmic breaths lulled Dorcas to sleep. 

:::

Dorcas woke and sat up. The secret room must also provide ambient light in the daytime. She looked around for the light’s source but didn’t see one. She flexed the fingers of her left hand. They were numb because she’d fallen asleep laying on her arm. 

She looked at Tom as he slept next to her. Dorcas was reminded of how the Grey Lady had described Tom in their conversation late last year. She’d called him the “beautiful Slytherin boy.” Dorcas was inclined to agree with her. 

His hair fell in dark waves over his forehead and his long eyelashes swept his cheeks delicately as he slept. He had high cheekbones that would have been described as severe on a less handsome face. His cheeks were losing some of that roundness of childhood, hollowing out a little as he became older. His jawline was also losing the softness of youth, becoming sharper. 

Dorcas was compelled to touch him. She swept his hair back from his forehead, careful to keep her touch light. The faintest brush of her hand startled him and his eyes opened, flashing alarmingly. 

He sat up and grabbed her hand, squeezing hard. 

“I’m sorry,” Dorcas said, inhaling as the pain in her hand sharpened. 

Tom’s eyes focused on her. As they did, they softened and he exhaled. “No, I’m sorry,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to.” 

Dorcas shook her head, pulling her hand away and rubbing her fingers. 

“Yes, I did,” he argued, there was sympathy in his voice. “Let me see.” 

He took her hand and examined it. Rubbing her fingers between his own he apologized again. “You startled me. I try not to sleep when I’m around people because–” 

Dorcas nodded and finished for him, “at the orphanage that’s when you’re most vulnerable. I know. I wasn’t thinking.” 

She felt a strong urge to comfort him, to let him know that she was not angry with him, so she leaned forward wrapped her arms around him

He relaxed a little in her embrace. Eventually, she felt his arms wrap around her as well. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a picture in black and white of a familiar face. She was staring at the newspaper that Tom had given her where it rested next to his leg, half obscured by the book she’d been reading aloud to him. Tom’s picture stared up at her from the page. 

“Tom,” she gasped. 

He released her. “What is it?” He pulled back and studied her at arm’s length, believing that he’d hurt her again. 

She pulled the paper over and spread it on their laps between them. 

The small photograph on page eleven was Tom, but different at the same time. She’d never seen him wear such aristocratic clothing before. And he looked somehow twenty years older. 

“Look at the caption,” Dorcas said, but it came out in a constricted whisper. 

“Tom Riddle, missing for ten months reunited with Little Hangleton family,” Tom read, his brow creased in confusion. 

“How can that be you, Tom?” Dorcas asked, finally finding her voice. 

Tom was shaking his head and reading the small two-paragraph story that accompanied the picture. “That’s not me.” 

  
  



End file.
